1  1 


ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 


-  OF  GALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


BOOKS  BY  ANNA  BOWMAN  DODD 


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On  the  Knees  of  the  Gods 


By 

Anna  Bowman  Dodd 


New  York 

Dodd,  Mead  &  Company 
1908 


Copyright,  1908 
By  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

Published,  January,  igo8 


To  E.  W.  D. 


Le  Manoir  de  Vasouy 
1903 1908 


2129023 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 

CORINTH  AND  ATHENS 
CHAPTER  PAGE 

I     MANES  AND  MAIA i 

II     NIRIAS  AND  MAIA 14 

III  MAIA'S  HISTORY .  28 

IV  ON  To  ATHENS 37 

V     AN  INVOCATION 40 

VI     THE  FEAST  OF  DIONYSUS 42 

VII     MAIA'S  TRIUMPH 55 

VIII.     IN  THE  PAINTED  PORCH 64 

IX     A  BREAKFAST  AT  THE  PIRAEUS    .     .     .76 

BOOK  II 

OLYMPIA 

X-     A  FATEFUL  DECISION 94 

XI     THE  SACRED  WAY 112 

XII      ION  AND  MAIA 122 

XIII  THE  POMPIC  WAY 136 

XIV  A  NIGHT  IN  ARCADIA 157 

XV     BEFORE  THE  RACE 168 

XVI     THE  CHARIOT  RACE 174 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  III 

ATHENS 
CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVII  "  A  MARRIAGE  PROJECT 195 

XVIII  AN  ATHENIAN  DAWN 208 

XIX  OVER  A  GARDEN  WALL 215 

XX  MYRTO'S  AWAKENING 226 

XXI,  HERMIONE  AND  MYRTO 235 

XXII  NAUSICAA 250 

XXIII  A  FAMILY  SCENE 261 

XXIV  THE  BREATH  OF  MARS 268 

XXV     A  BETROTHAL 279 

XXVI  THE  DANCER 291 

XXVII  MAIA'S  ARRIVAL 308 

XXVIII  MAIA'S  LITTLE  PLOT 320 

XXIX  THE  VOICE  OF  FATE 338 

XXX  THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  FLEET  .     .     .  344 


BOOK  IV 

SYRACUSE 

XXXI     A  BARBER'S  STORY 361 

XXXII     TIMOLEON'S  RETURN 370 

XXXIII  ATHENS  HEARS  THE  TRUTH  ....  383 

XXXIV  THE  QUARRIES       .     .     .     .     .     .     .391 

XXXV     ION  SINGS 403 

XXXVI     AN  EPITHALAMIUM      .     .     ,     .     .     .419 


ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

BOOK  I  —  CORINTH  AND  ATHENS 
Chapter  I 

MANES  AND   MAIA 

WITHIN  its  forty  miles  of  walls,  Corinth  lay  like  a  giant, 
stretching  its  limbs  between  the  lofty  Citadel,  Acro-Corin- 
thus,  and  the  sea.  Its  gardens  and  temples,  its  statues  and 
colonnades,  and  its  brown  tiled  roofs  rolled  on  like  a  river 
whose  flow  was  arrested  by  the  uplifted  mass  of  tower-stud- 
ded defences.  The  roar  of  the  living  million  or  more  rose 
up  from  the  crowded  city.  Along  the  amber  sands  the 
Crissian  sea  curled  its  peacock  blue  waters.  Red,  white, 
and  purple  sails  sent  long  trails  of  colour  across  the  liquid 
surface,  while  about  the  docks  of  the  war  triremes,  the 
reflections  were  black.  For  the  trade  of  all  the  known 
world  came  to  anchor  at  either  one  of  Corinth's  two 
ports. 

Upward  from  the  plain,  mighty  Acro-Corinthus  sprang. 
Like  a  victor  carrying  flowery  wreaths  to  perilous  heights, 
the  mountain's  jagged  rock  surface  showed,  here  and  there, 
the  bloom  of  verdure.  At  certain  altitudes  the  rocks  re- 
ceeded,  forming  natural  terraces.  On  one  such,  Manes,  the 
famous  chorus-master,  had  built  him  a  house. 

Such  narrow  ledges  of  space  were  cheap.  A  chorus  in 
training  could  here  be  put  through  their  daily  drill,  and 
slaves  and  masters  lodged,  at  half  the  price  asked  within 
luxurious  and  costly  Corinthian  streets. 

In  the  warmth  of  a  late  autumn  day,  in  the  year  416, 

I 


before  our  Lord  came,  Manes'  pupils  and  their  trainers  were 
hurrying  to  complete  their  rehearsals. 

A  dozen  youths  were  marching  with  rhythmic  step,  to 
the  sound  of  a  war-trumpet.  Their  shields  and  helmets, 
like  the  bronze  of  their  skins,  glittered  and  gleamed,  struck 
by  the  slanting  sun-rays. 

On  the  terrace  below,  some  boys  were  practising  with 
cymbals.  An  orchestra  composed  of  harps,  flutes,  and 
zithers  were  rehearsing  a  dance  measure.  Above  the  crash- 
ing of  discordant  sounds  the  sharpened  voices  of  the  teachers 
and  trainers  could  be  heard  administering  reproof. 

Close  to  the  terrace  wall,  below  the  master's  house,  two 
elderly  men  stood. 

In  the  short,  hurried  pauses  of  their  talk,  the  city's  roar 
rose  up,  while,  closer  to  their  ears  rang  the  clinking  sound 
of  dice,  shaken  and  then  rolled  on  the  rough  pebbles  of  the 
terrace.  The  names  of  champion  cocks,  those  highest  in 
Corinth's  favour,  were  ever  and  anon  cried  out,  by  the 
eager  players.  For  Nirias'  slaves  were  at  their  favorite 
pastime.  This  play  of  the  dice  made  of  each  gambler  a 
human  instrument,  tensely  strung. 

Neither  Nirias,  the  richest  of  Corinthian  merchants,  nor 
Manes,  the  chorus-master,  heard  either  the  sharp,  shrill 
cries  of  the  dice  throwers,  nor  did  they  heed  the  light  mock- 
ing laughter  of  some  frolicsome  priestesses  of  Aphrodite, 
who,  on  their  long,  upward  climb  to  their  temple,  had 
stopped,  along  the  mountain  road,  to  criticise  and  to  imitate 
the  boyish  voices  of  Manes'  pupils. 

Both  Nirias  and  Manes  were  consumed  by  an  inward 
heat  of  maddened  impatience.  And  both,  being  Greek, 
were  striving  to  wear  two  faces  within  their  hoods. 

Manes'  irritation  had  reached  the  point  of  physical  loss 
of  self-control.  His  ringers  visibly  shook,  as  he  feverishly 
caressed  the  long  scroll  he  held.  He  could  scarce  wreath 


MANES  AND  MAIA  3 

his  lips  with  the  right  smile  —  scarce  frame  the  common- 
places expected  of  him.  To  be  in  actual  possession  of  such  a 
treasure  —  to  be  the  first,  in  all  Corinth  —  in  the  Isthmus 
—  to  finger  the  "  Wasps  " —  and  to  have  to  stand  and  smirk 
and  smile! 

Manes  gave  an  angry  toss  of  his  bush  of  hair  backwards. 
He  felt  his  breath  through  his  coarse  beard,  come  in  quick- 
ened gasps;  yet  he  must,  as  he  well  knew,  check  his  ache 
of  longing  for  quick  reading  of  the  play;  he  must  continue 
to  waste  time  in  pretending  Nirias'  stupid  comments  were 
criticism. 

"You  have  read  it,  doubtless,  Nirias?  and  what  is  your 
opinion  ?  "  and  Manes  lifted  his  eyebrows,  enquiringly,  as 
though  his  own  decision  must  wait  on  his  patron's  judgment. 

"Ah  —  magnificent  —  the  greatest  of  all  his  plays!" 
Nirias  answered,  in  a  lordly  tone,  with  the  accent  of  one 
who  considered  his  verdict  final. 

Manes  bethought  himself  quickly,  as  a  solace  for  his 
torture,  of  one  decision  concerning  which  he  hoped  the  mer- 
chant would  show  equal  assurance. 

"And  —  and  it  is  I  who  am  to  have  the  chorus?"  he 
asked,  with  eager  questioning. 

"  Oh,"  replied  Nirias,  with  the  ease  of  the  rich  whose 
passion  for  the  arts  has  come  late  —  along  with  an  over- full 
purse  — "  I  took  it  to  the  Archon,  to  ask  him  for  a  chorus. 
But  the  city  is  having  a  fit  of  economy,  it  appears.  I  have, 
therefore,  determined  to  set  up  the  chorus  myself.  Can 
you  be  ready,  do  you  think?  " 

Manes'  smile  was  now  one  of  beatitude.  "  Ready,  sir, 
why,  I'll  kill  a  dozen  choruses  with  work,  sooner  than  miss 
its  production.  You'll  permit  me  to  look  the  play  over?" 
And  Manes  managed  to  lift  the  arch  of  his  strong  brows 
with  due  humility. 

"  Certainly  —  certainly  —  I  will  walk  about  a  little.    The 


4  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

air  is  good  on  your  terrace  "  cried  Nirias,  with  becoming  con- 
descension. He  flattered  himself  his  own  impatience  was  be- 
ing admirably  cloaked. 

Nirias  pretended  to  be  wholly  taken  up  with  adjusting 
the  folds  of  his  himation,  as  his  heavy  steps  swept  the  terrace. 
He  moved  onward  with  all  the  calm  he  could  command,  now 
securing  the  corner  piece  under  the  left  arm-pit,  now  tossing 
the  other  end  over  his  stout  shoulder.  But  his  heart  was 
thumping  most  agreeably,  beneath  the  soft,  thick,  purple 
folds. 

Even  more  than  Manes,  Nirias  was  delighted  at  this 
chance  of  freedom.  Now  he  could  look  —  he  could  watch 

—  he  could  be  sure  of  hearing  dear  Maia's  first  foot-fall, 

—  of,  perhaps,  signalling  to  the  child  to  meet  him,  later,  on 
the  upper  terrace,  before  meddlesome  Manes  came  between! 

Even  as  the  surging  hope  welled  up,  Nirias'  steps  were 
suddenly  arrested. 

Exquisite,  delicate-voiced  flute-notes  filled  his  ear.  Pure, 
sweet,  powerful,  the  melody,  as  though  sung  by  a  living 
voice,  rather  than  played,  soared  higher  and  higher. 

"  It  is  Maia  —  that  glorious  child !  "  Nirias  cried  aloud, 
in  rapturous  tones.  "  She  is  pouring  forth  her  wonderful 
notes  —  to  enkindle  love!"  Nirias'  face  fairly  shone  with 
joy.  He  felt  himself  thrilling  in  response  to  the  vibrating 
strains.  The  unseen  player's  music  ever  had  the  power  of 
thus  touching  the  slumbering  depths  of  the  merchant's  quick- 
ly roused  soul. 

How  gay,  how  joyous  was  the  song  Maia  played !  How 
the  child  had  learned  to  pour  her  young  heart  out  through 
the  sonorous  tubes!  Nirias  felt  his  heart  swelling  with 
rapture.  Surely  no  other  fingers,  save  Maia's,  could  touch 
the  chord  of  feeling  as  could  her  fingering  upon  the  stops. 
Now  she  was  rendering  tender,  yearning  strains  as  though 
her  dear,  innocent  heart  had  sounded  all  known  depths  of 


woe.  Then  came  more  joyous  notes.  The  stream  of  liquid 
ecstasy  would  drop,  suddenly,  as  though  to  touch  emotion's 
source,  only  to  soar  to  upper,  higher  keys,  as  though  to  rival 
the  lark's  effortless  bubbling. 

Nirias  found  he  could  no  longer  control  his  mounting 
ecstacy  of  delight. 

With  hurrying  feet,  grasping  at  his  mantle  as  he  ran,  he 
cried  out,  with  ringing  voice,  as  he  neared  Manes, 

"  Ah-h  'tis  she !  'tis  Maia's  touch !  I  would  know  it  above 
a  hundred  fingerings." 

Manes  nodded,  smiled  with  a  look  of  triumph  in  his  eyes, 
as  he  answered, 

"  Yes  —  she  is  always  at  her  best,  when  she  plays  thus 
alone,  amid  the  trees,  with  only  herself  for  audience." 

For  an  instant,  the  two  men's  eyes  were  interlocked,  as 
though  the  nature  of  the  unseen  player  were  known  to  both, 
and  yet  their  common  knowledge  were  best  unspoken.  Then 
Manes  rolled  the  scroll  of  the  play,  slowly,  noiselessly,  and 
joined  Nirias,  who  had  moved  to  the  terrace  wall,  where 
both  stood,  for  long  moments,  fixed,  immovable. 

Save  for  the  soaring  flute  notes,  the  air  was  very  still. 

Higher  and  higher  the  crystalline  notes  swept  upward. 
The  player's  touch  was  that  of  a  master.  The  thrilling 
quality  of  the  trills,  the  melodious  runs,  and  the  long  drawn 
notes  shook  the  soul  of  every  listener. 

The  clash  of  the  metal  shields  had  stopped,  as  though  at 
a  word  of  command.  The  voices  of  the  rehearsing  chorus 
and  the  orchestral  discords  had  been  silenced.  The  execu- 
tion of  the  unseen  player  was  the  best  of  lessons,  since  the 
phrazing  was  that  of  the  highest  art. 

Whirring,  soaring,  the  melody  continued  to  pour  forth 
its  soul-moving  notes,  to  the  ears  of  the  two  listeners.  Each 
found  in  the  music  the  message  it  longed  to  hear.  To 
Nirias  it  was  love's  own  voice,  first  whispering,  then  shout- 


ing  the  glad,  triumphant  notes  of  full  confession.  To 
Manes,  the  well-executed  trills  were  overwhelming  proof  of 
his  own  power  as  a  teacher. 

Manes  presently  strained  his  ears. 

The  great  test  was  now  to  be  made  of  the  player's  skill. 
Would  Maia  sail  through  the  difficulties  of  that  intricate, 
descending  scale?  Did  she  but  choose,  no  flute-girl  in 
Corinth  could  strike,  and  hold  her  high  notes  as  securely. 
Yet  —  on  other  occasions  — 

Manes  started.  His  face  suddenly  crimsoned.  His  pas- 
sionate anger  swept  him  like  a  flame.  For  again  —  and  as 
though  purposely,  Maia  had  flattened  the  higher  notes  of 
the  descending  scale.  She  prolonged  her  trill  as  though 
with  the  sole  object  of  proving  she  could  play  out  of  tune  — 
and  would  —  even  after  having  been  severely  punished  for 
the  offence. 

"  By  the  fury  of  Apollo !  But  how  dare  she !  The  same 
note  —  aye  the  very  self-same  measure !  She  does  it  to  anger 
me.  She  knows  I  am  here,  and  can  hear  her ! "  This 
was  hoarsely  whispered.  Aloud  he  cried: 

"Maia,  O  Maia!" 

Manes'  answer  was  a  quick  stoppage  of  the  music.  A 
breathless  silence  followed.  Then  came  the  sound  of  laugh- 
ter. Clear,  mocking,  joyous  —  as  effortless  as  her  trills  — 
the  unseen  player's  laughter  rang  out.  It  smote  the  air  — 
made  it  ring  with  mirth.  Its  light-hearted  gaiety  was  swept 
to  the  ears  of  the  waiting,  elderly  lover.  He  drank  in  its 
accents  as  though  sipping  renewed  youth  from  a  cup  of  joy. 
Manes  only  heard  its  mockery.  His  quick  Greek  anger 
stung  him,  as  though  each  quivering  nerve  were  a  pricking 
bee. 

Once  more  he  called;  his  voice  was  now  thick  with  rage. 
"Maia!  Maia!"  Only  the  swaying  boughs  answered. 

"  By  the  Furies'  just  wrath!     If  the  whip  hath  any  vir- 


MANES  AND  MAIA  7 

tue  in- it!"  The  violence  of  this  threat,  however,  Manes 
breathed  low,  for  the  soothing  of  his  rage.  The  certainty 
of  vengeance  cooled  his  heat.  He  bethought  him,  in  this 
calmer  moment,  of  the  clever  uses  of  strategy. 

"Maia! — Nirias  is  come  —  he  has  something  he  wishes 
to  give  thee!"  Would  the  lie  serve?  Manes  held  his 
quick  breath,  as  he  stood  silent,  expectant. 

Nirias  broke  the  spell.  His  voice  was  thick  with  excite- 
ment. 

"  Let  us  gain  the  upper  terrace  " —  and  he  lifted  his  man- 
tle. 

But  Manes  held  him  with  an  iron  grip.  A  voice  Nirias 
had  never  known  as  that  of  Manes  whispered  hoarsely,  im- 
periously, 

"  I  pray  you,  dear  Sir, —  allow  me  —  let  me  preceed 
you.  If  you  will  but  await  me  here,  Maia,  I  promise,  shall 
quickly  descend." 

Manes  turned,  scarce  waiting  to  finish  his  sentence,  and 
swept  to  the  steps  of  the  steep  terrace,  his  coarse  tunic  wind- 
filled  as  he  flew. 

Nirias  stared,  gasped,  emitted  a  few  racy  oaths,  and,  see- 
ing a  bench  near  by,  concluded  to  do  exactly  as  he  had  been 
bidden.  He  would  sit  awhile  and  rest. 

Manes,  as  he  mounted  the  steep  steps,  felt  his  pulses 
beating  mad  measures.  His  righteous  anger  swept  him  like 
a  flame.  Nirias  —  pupils  —  slaves  —  even  the  great  play 
were  forgotten.  He  had  but  one  longing,  one  consuming 
desire  —  to  find  Maia  —  and  to  execute  his  sweet,  swift 
vengeance. 

On  the  upper  terrace  Manes  finally  stood  silent,  expectant. 

With  a  crashing  sound,  some  of  the  nearer  tree-boughs 
were  parted.  The  brush  of  garments  swept  across  fir- 
needles, made  Manes'  breath  come,  in  shortened  gasps.  His 
eyes  gleamed  and  narrowed,  as  he  watched  a  girlish  form 


8  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

emerge  from  its  hiding,  to  move  with  slow,  composed  grace 
towards  him. 

As  the  girl  neared  Manes,  she  sent  a  fierce  searching  gaze 
over  the  flame-lit  face.  A  second  later,  the  two  stood  fixed, 
rigid.  Each  was  measuring  the  other  with  the  quick,  sure 
glance  of  those  who  live  close  enough  to  know  every  shade 
of  change  in  the  other's  face. 

What  the  girl  read  made  her  lift  her  instrument  —  made 
her  tighten  her  hold  on  her  Libyan  double  flute.  She  held 
it  high  before  her  heaving  breast,  as  though  it  were  a 
shield.  With  a  disdainful  toss  of  her  bright-hued  locks, 
she  swept  her  lids  about  the  ill-kept  terrace  plane.  Then 
she  smiled,  with  light  scorn,  as  she  said, 

"  I  knew  it  was  a  lie  —  no  Nirias  is  come  —  I  should 
have  heard  him.  Yet,  O  Manes,  as  you  see,  I  am  here!  " 

Bravely  as  she  spoke,  Maia  felt  her  breath  harden.  She 
knew  quite  well  what  was  coming  to  her  —  her  master's  face 
was  bent,  was  lowered  —  and  he  looked  at  her  with  eyes 
that  showed  strange  streaks  of  red. 

Yet  she  spoke  to  the  flaming  face  —  she  still  eyed,  coura- 
geously—  those  terrible  orbs.  "I  was  playing  for  myself, 
you  have  no  right  to  punish  me  —  for  it  was  not  a  lesson !  " 
she  cried,  making  a  brave  plea  for  justice. 

For  all  answer,  her  master's  hand  had  fallen  upon  her 
shoulder.  The  pain  of  his  grasp  made  her  eye-lids  quiver. 

Maia  stiffened.  Without  a  word,  she  turned  and  moved 
toward  the  house-door.  She  knew  the  language  of  those 
swollen  features,  of  that  en-crimsoned  brow. 

With  its  look  of  animal  ferocity,  the  face  of  Manes  was 
changed  to  the  face  of  a  beast,  enraged. 

Within  the  house,  Maia  turned  once  again,  swiftly,  pas- 
sionately. Her  great  eyes  shone  with  a  strange,  piercing 
light.  Pale,  her  features  were  also  set,  fixed.  As  both 
stood  in  the  tiny  court  of  the  house,  Maia  lifted  her  arm, 


MANES  AND  MAIA  9 

as  though  to  Invoke  celestial  aid,  as  she  holdly  faced  her 
master. 

"  Remember,  Manes  —  think  well ! —  this  time  —  before 
you  strike.  Remember  my  vow!  I  made  it  on  the  temple 
steps  —  only  yesterday  —  as  I  told  you.  If  ever  your  whip 
touch  me  again,  I  swore  'twould  be  the  last  time  1  Besides," 
she  added  breathlessly,  her  hand  falling  —  she  saw  the  whip 
even  now  bristling  above  her,  "  Indeed,  truly  I  was  play- 
ing for  myself  —  remember  in  mercy,  it  was  not  a  lesson." 
And  once  more  her  smile  gathered  strength. 

Never  before  had  she  thus  dared  to  face  her  master. 
Surely  Theseus,  the  kind  god  of  slaves,  must  have  heard  her 
vow.  He  was  sending  her  courage.  Yet  the  mere  act  of 
breathing  she  found  difficult.  Her  lips  seemed  turned  to 
stone. 

Manes,  whose  business  in  life  was  to  teach  tragic  gestures 
and  postures,  was  no  reader  of  a  slave's  face,  when  he  was 
in  anger.  Maia's  threat  only  served  to  inflame  the  fury  of 
his  wrath. 

He  stood  awaiting  Maia,  his  whole  frame  trembling  with 
the  passion  of  his  anger  —  and  the  girl  took  her  place  beside 
a  certain  column,  with  still  composure. 

The  swish  of  a  slender  cowhide  presently  cut  the  air.  As 
the  first  stroke  came,  Manes  found  his  voice. 

"Ah-ha!  Practising  for  herself  —  was  she?  and  playing 
a  false  note,  now  and  then,  just  to  vex  me  —  and  then,  to 
show  her  power,  she  laughs  —  as  though  she  were  the  mis- 
tress! Ho  ho!  I  heard  you  laugh!  and  now  you  threaten! 
Pretty  goings  on  for  a  child  who  owes  all  she  is  to  her  master 
—  and  such  a  master !  " 

For  a  breathing  space,  Manes  held  the  whip  aloft.  And 
then  it  fell  again. 

The  sounds  of  the  falling  lash  were  broken  by  the  titter- 
ing of  laughter  and  the  rustle  of  moving  shapes.  Some  of 


io  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

the  household  slaves  had  swept  in,  eager,  breathless,  from 
the  inner  court.  Their  dancing  eyes,  and  cruel,  gloating 
smiles  shone  from  the  open  Andron  door. 

To  see  Manes  plying  the  whip  on  his  beloved,  spoiled 
Maia  was  a  spectacle  that  moved  Manes'  household  to  rap- 
ture. Maia's  abasement  to  their  own  slave's  level  repaid 
them,  in  part,  for  the  insupportable  preference  shown  the 
girl. 

As  the  whip  fell,  the  slaves  drew  in  their  breath,  with 
sweetened  relish.  That  last  stroke,  surely,  must  make  the 
toes  fly!  J 

Maia  had,  indeed,  lifted  her  foot,  as  the  lash  fell.  The 
pain  it  brought  was  intolerable.  Yet  her  lips  were  held 
firm.  No  moan  or  groan  was  permitted  to  escape.  With 
the  knowledge  of  those  grinning  slaves  yonder,  sooner  than 
have  cried  out,  Manes  might  have  killed  her. 

Manes  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  killing  the  girl. 
He  meant,  indeed,  to  make  her  feel  his  blows,  but  in  no 
sense  whatever  to  harm  her.  The  whipping  of  Maia  de- 
manded a  certain  art.  Slave  though  she  was,  yet,  holding 
toward  her  master  rather  the  position  of  adopted  child  than 
that  of  a  menial,  Manes  had  never,  as  yet,  sent  the  girl  to 
the  public  whipper.  Her  health  and  fair  skin  were  of  too 
great  importance,  in  the  resources  of  the  establishment,  to 
run  any  serious  risks.  Maia's  beauty  and  talents  brought 
drachma;  into  Manes'  grasping  fingers.  Her  inborn,  stub- 
born pride,  and,  occasionally,  the  impish  daring  of  her  nature 
that  led  her  to  the  committing  of  a  musical  crime  —  such 
as  the  striking  of  a  false  note,  to  vex  him  —  while  such 
faults  must,  of  course,  be  beaten  out  of  the  girl,  still  due 
allowance  must  be  made  for  the  child's  youth  and  for  her 
sensitive  nature. 

It  was  the  memory  of  the  shame  Maia  had  brought  upon 


MANES  AND  MAIA  n 

him,  at  a  recent  banquet,  the  very  night  before,  that  had 
given  so  fierce  a  tongue  to  Manes'  whip. 

Confound  the  girl!  Why  did  she  stand  thus  like  stone? 
Why  did  her  vile,  stubborn  temper  keep  her  lips  silent? 
Why  had  she  not  cried  out,  like  a  human  being,  if  only  to 
make  him  aware  of  the  strength  of  his  blows? 

Nothing  angered  Manes  more  than  the  one  quality,  his 
whip  apparently,  could  not  subdue  —  Maia's  unflinching, 
heroic  courage. 

As  though  to  punish  the  whip  for  its  ineffectiveness, 
Manes  flung  it,  with  passionate  suddenness,  across  the  court. 

For  the  look  he  hated  was  still  in  the  girl's  eyes,  as  she 
turned  to  face  him. 

The  eyes  that  met  his  were  full  of  proud  scorn.  The 
curved  lips  spoke  more  eloquently  than  words  the  depth  of 
Maia's  contempt. 

Though  still  involuntarily  quivering  from  the  torture  of 
her  punishment,  Maia  nerved  herself  to  begin  at  once  the  re- 
adjustment of  her  fallen  slip  of  a  garment.  She  quickly 
re-girdled  its  length  —  the  folds  falling  obediently  into 
graceful  lines. 

Manes,  as  he  stood  watching  the  girl,  with  puzzled,  anx- 
ious eyes,  wondered  what  in  the  Furies'  name  this  calm  of 
set,  fixed  smile  could  mean.  A  fresh  wave  of  hot-born 
anger  swept  his  frame.  Yet  he  must  stand  and  bear  it.  If 
the  whip  had  no  power  to  subdue  this  dauntless  nature  — 
what  new  punishment  could  he  devise  to  break  the  girl's 
spirit? 

Presently,  a  kindlier,  softer  feeling  possessed  him.  Maia's 
pale  face  and  the  dark  rings  about  her  great  eyes  touched 
him  —  in  some  new,  mysterious  way.  A  kindly,  benevolent 
feeling  swept  over  him.  Brutes  sometimes  have  such  re- 
actions —  after  their  animal  ferocity  is  worked  out  of  them. 


12  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

"  There  —  there  —  my  dear."  He  now  moved  toward 
the  girl  —  he  patted  the  snows  of  the  young  shoulders  as 
they  rose  and  fell  before  him.  "  There  —  you  bore  it 
bravely  —  I  must  say.  And  now  there'll  be  no  more  trou- 
ble. That  is  quite  enough  —  for  one  day.  You'll  remember 
now,  I  doubt  not,  to  strike  the  high  note  a  tone  higher  — 
next  time." 

Maia  nodded  her  bright  head,  almost  gaily.  She  gave  no 
sign  of  resentment.  With  a  half  laugh,  as  though  quite 
of  her  master's  mind,  she  stooped,  with  quick,  swift  grace, 
to  gather  her  flute  to  her  arms. 

With  a  slower  step  she  moved  onwards,  past  the  rude 
columns  of  the  small  peristyle.  Her  smile  was  still  on  her 
lips  as  she  nodded  now  to  a  whole  company  of  leering,  of 
gaping-mouthed,  and  of  sorrow-smitten  faces. 

She  turned.  But  Manes  was  gone.  He  had  passed  be- 
yond the  door,  to  the  open  terrace.  Then  Maia  once  more 
nodded  her  head. 

"  He'll  be  sorry,"  she  said,  to  the  company  of  masks  — 
as  though  they  knew  her  trouble,  and  could  sympathize. 

With  every  one  of  these  Maia  was  as  familiar  as  she 
was  with  the  outlines  of  her  own  straight  nose  and  her 
rounded  cheeks.  Talking  aloud  to  this  crowded  collection 
was  like  taking  into  her  confidence  friends  —  nay  relations, 
with  whom  the  girl  had  been  on  terms  of  closest  intimacy 
since  ever  she  had  known  one  face  from  another. 

Scarcely  a  head  among  the  dozens  that  seemed  to  smile 
back  at  her,  or  jeered,  feelingless,  or  mourned,  in  sympathy, 
but  owed  the  crown  of  their  high-piled  tresses,  or  the  grace 
of  their  falling  hair-masses  to  Maia's  skilled  fingers.  Since 
ever  her  childish  fingers  could  grasp  a  brush,  she  had  been 
taught  to  dress  dead  hair,  to  curl  glossy  ringlets,  or  to  heat 
'cold  irons  to  give  to  lifeless  locks  and  beards  nature's  wave. 

As  the  girl  made  her  way  towards  the  inner  court,  she 


MANES  AND  MAIA  13 

continued  to  nod,  as  she  continued,  also,  to  murmur  her 
thoughts  aloud  to  the  silent  company. 

"  Yes  —  he'll  be  sorry  enough  —  when  he  knows  —  and 
that  will  be  a  shade  hence.  Nirias,  when  he  comes  —  had 
best  be  kept  waiting." 

As  she  gazed  about  her,  she  seemed  to  be  taking,  as  wit- 
ness to  her  great  resolve,  all  and  every  feature  and  object 
of  the  life  she  meant  should  soon  —  and  forever  —  be  done 
with. 

Besides  the  masks,  the  tiny  courts  of  the  house,  as  well 
as  every  one  of  the  narrow  cell-like  chambers,  were  filled 
with  the  necessaries  of  a  theatrical  establishment.  Chitons, 
himatia,  diploi,  peasant's  chlamys,  staves,  canes,  thrysi,  gar- 
lands, vases,  and  amphorae,  were  crowding  every  inch  of 
space. 

Some  of  these  Mala  fingered,  with  lingering  touch,  others 
she  grazed,  without  as  much  as  a  look,  and  to  one  tunic  that 
had  cost  her  many  a  tear,  so  patched  was  the  venerable  fab- 
ric, she  gave  a  vicious  grab,  tearing  it  to  a  formless  mass 
of  rags. 

Then  she  threw  her  head  back,  and  laughed  —  and  the 
laugh  was  not  good  to  hear.  It  voiced  her  life. 

When  she  entered  the  small  room,  opening  from  the 
court,  and  before  she  closed  the  dirty  hanging  that  did  duty 
for  a  door,  Maia  stretched  her  ears  forth.  Through  the 
open  door  of  the  Andronitis  she  heard  Manes'  rich,  trained 
voice  making  reverential  replies.  The  thicker,  stronger, 
coarser  tones  were  surely  those  of  Nirias.  The  two  were 
apparently  in  close  talk,  on  the  upper  terrace. 

Maia's  smile  parted  her  perfect  lips.  This  time  the  smile 
was  radiant  —  it  was  flushed  with  content.  The  scene  was 
set  exactly  as  she  wished  —  for  what  she  felt  was  to  be  the 
first  great  act  of  her  life. 


Chapter  II 

NIRIAS  AND   MAIA 

LEFT  to  himself,  Nirias  had  not  found  the  time  long. 
He  had  stretched  his  limbs,  relaxing  his  frame,  with  a  sense 
of  relief.  To  feel  intensely,  at  fifty,  brings  its  inevitable 
reaction.  Since  Maia  was  soon  to  appear,  this  moment  of 
rest  was  agreeable.  The  rude  bench  felt  as  soft  as  though 
cushion-piled. 

Through  his  half-closed  eyes,  Nirias  swept  the  great  pros- 
pect immediately  below  him.  A  certain  dark  mass,  to  the 
east  of  the  city,  he  viewed  with  peculiar  satisfaction.  Be- 
neath the  thick  groups  of  cypresses,  poplars,  and  firs,  gleam- 
ing marbles  shone. 

Nirias  opened  his  eyes.  He  smiled  as  he  looked  down- 
wards. Among  those  distant  tombs,  his  wife  Italia  lay. 
How  splendid  was  her  stelae!  The  tomb  had  become  one 
of  the  wonders  of  the  Kraneion.  Even  now,  months  after 
her  death,  it  affected  Nirias  almost  to  tears,  to  reflect  upon 
the  numbers  of  strangers  that  were  taken  to  see  the  famous 
carvings  on  dear  Italia's  monument.  It  was,  and  with  jus- 
tice, accounted  one  of  the  best  masterpieces  Corinth  could 
boast,  one  of  Alcamenes'  greatest  triumphs. 

A  proud  man,  it  was  a  never  failing  source  of  delight  to 
Nirias,  to  reflect  how  splendidly  he  had  entombed  Italia. 
Few  Corinthians  could  mourn  their  dead  wives  with  as  rich 
a  sense  of  satisfaction.  Even  as  he  had  clothed  and  housed 
Italia  luxuriously  when  in  life,  in  her  death  he  had  greatly 
honoured  her. 

And,  now  that  she  was  dead,  he,  Nirias  was  free!  With 
freedom,  youth  had  returned  to  him.  How  glorious  to  be 


NIRIAS  AND  MAIA  i$ 

thus  re-born  to  youth, —  to  feel  intensely  —  passionately  — 
and  at  fifty  to  have  the  dear  gods  proffering  the  cup  of 
divine  joys!  Ah-h  but  he  would  drink  deep  —  deep.  It 
was  Maia  —  beautiful,  gifted  Maia  —  whom  the  gods  had 
sent,  to  work  the  miracle. 

At  a  banquet,  Nirias  had  heard  Maia  play.  One  first 
look  at  her  fair,  perfect  young  face,  at  her  shapely  outlines, 
and  Nirias  was  turned  a  love-sick  mortal.  The  usual  pre- 
liminaries to  a  rich  man's  courtship  of  a  slip  of  a  flute-girl 
had  not  worked  successfully.  When  he  had  attempted  to 
draw  the  child  to  him,  she  had  slipped  from  his  grasp.  On 
the  morrow  Nirias  had  toiled  up  the  hill-side,  to  hang  his 
garland  on  her  door.  Instead  of  Maia  he  had  found  Manes. 
For  reasons  of  his  own,  Manes  apparently,  had  kept,  and 
intended  to  keep  Maia  pure. 

Thus  thwarted,  Nirias'  fever  of  love  ran  the  common,  wild 
course  of  such  maladies.  He  had  turned  strategist  —  he  was 
now  wooing  Manes.  He  was  purchasing  every  new  play  his 
agents  could  procure.  He  was  willing  to  spend  a  fortune 
in  presenting  them.  Maia  was  worth  all  this  —  and  more ; 
for  there  was  a  look  in  her  face  no  man  could  learn  to  know 
without  longing  to  evoke  it. 

When  Maia  played,  this  wonder-look  dawned  on  her 
face.  In  all  Corinth,  Nirias  vowed,  no  such  adorable  ming- 
ling of  divine,  soulful  qualities  and  Aphrodite-like  beauty 
was  to  be  found.  Since  in  Corinth  all  things  were  to  be 
bought,  why  not  these  ?  Time,  patience,  and  money  brought 
all  things  to  pass. 

As  Nirias  sat  on  his  hard  bench  he  was  busily  revolving 
in  his  mind  a  fresh  plan  —  one  he  felt  certain  would  accom- 
plish wonders  —  when  he  heard  Manes'  deep  voice  in  his 
ear. 

Nirias  came  to  his  feet  with  a  bound.  For  Manes  was 
smiling  down  upon  him  with  indulgent  air. 


16  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

"  You  will  find  Maia,  dear  Sir,  awaiting  you  in  the 
court " —  and  the  chorus-master  waived  his  hand  aloft,  as 
though  to  offer  his  distinguished  guest  his  poor  house  and  all 
it  contained. 

Nirias  flushed,  nodded,  grasped  his  mantle  with  both 
hands,  and,  suddenly  remembering  he  had  a  part  to  play, 
answered,  with  all  the  dignity  he  could  summon,  "  You 
spoke  of  some  new  poses  the  child  had  learned  lately  — 
perhaps  she  had  best  rehearse  them,  before  me, —  before  we 
decide  what  we  shall  give  our  guests  to-night  —  as  a 
novelty." 

Manes  managed  to  govern  his  lips.  It  was  as  well  the 
foolish  merchant  should  continue  to  think  his  innocent  airs 
were  played  to  the  right  audience.  His  own  longing  was, 
to  be  rid  of  his  patron.  His  scene  with  Maia  had  brought 
about  its  reaction  —  nothing  could  sooth  his  quivering  nerves, 
he  felt,  but  the  reading  of  the  play. 

He  watched  Nirias  mounting  the  steep  incline  with  gleam- 
ing eyes.  At  last  —  at  last  his  great  moment,  his  freedom, 
had  come! 

Nirias  now  stood  within  the  rude  little  court.  No  Maia 
was  to  be  seen.  From  the  inner  court  —  the  women's  and 
slaves'  quarters  —  a  murmurous  hum  came,  of  voices  and 
laughter. 

Should  he  clap  his  hands?  Such  an  action,  he  knew, 
would  bring  the  slaves  —  one  or  more  —  into  the  peristyle. 
Of  all  things,  their  curious  ears  and  eyes  were  not  wanted. 

He  moved  on  under  the  arcade.  He  looked  about  him. 
The  company  of  the  masks  looked  back.  QEdibus  and  his 
agonized  brow;  Electra  with  her  tresses  tucked  up,  peasant 
fashion; — Andromache,  with  her  passion-wrought  muscles; 
—  these  sorrow-smitten,  gaping-mouthed  faces  seemed  to 
counsel  speech. 

Nirias  took  his  courage  in  both  hands. 


NIRIAS  AND  MAIA  17 

"  Mala!  Maia!  come,  my  dear  —  I  am  waiting!  "  Nirias 
cried  out,  with  sudden  boldness.  No  answer  came.  A  rus- 
set-winged bee  buzzed  noisily  to  the  expressive,  but  silent 
company.  A  slave's  loud  laughter  next  drowned  the  bee's 
humming.  The  masks  grinned  and  leered,  or  drew  sorrow- 
ful faces.  But  that  which  Nirias  burned  to  look  upon  — 
the  vision  of  a  fair,  nobly-shaped  girl-form,  whose  roses  and 
snows  were  clad  in  a  coarse  chiton  —  this  vision  was  denied 
him. 

Nirias  was  about  to  do  a  desperate  act  —  to  clap  his 
hands,  and  bid  any  one  of  the  slaves  show  him  the  door, 
when  his  trouble  was  taken  from  him. 

Maia  had  shot  her  head  through  a  narrow  opening.  Her 
laughing  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Nirias,  as  he  floundered  to- 
ward her. 

"  This  way,  O  Nirias !  The  door  opens  upon  the  gar- 
den —  'tis  empty  —  we  shall  have  the  place  to  ourselves." — 
And  Maia's  smile  was  as  joyous  as  was  her  face. 

Nirias  stumbled,  with  rushing  feet,  toward  the  girl.  Even 
though  he  was  forced  to  hold  his  costly  mantle  in  both  hands, 
that  he  might  run  the  faster,  he  believed  himself  to  be 
treading  with  the  soundless  foot  of  the  panther,  and  to  be 
moving  with  the  swiftness  of  a  bird's  flight. 

A  hundred  years  old  he  seemed  to  Maia's  short  sixteen 
years  of  life!  To  see  this  powerful  citizen,  to  behold  him 
change  colour,  like  a  foolish  girl;  to  see  him  clutch  at  his 
mantle,  holding  its  costly  weight  awkardly  —  lest  he  trip 
as  he  ran;  to  look  upon  that  portly  shape  puff  and  blow  — 
as  he  rushed,  with  a  boy's  eagerness,  to  squeeze  his  breadth 
into  the  narrow  slaves'  door ;  and  now,  to  have  him,  panting 
and  blown,  with  his  eyes  starting,  wide  with  delight,  star- 
ing at  her,  as  though  she  were  a  divinity  come  to  mortal 
shape  —  Oh-h  surely  no  other  girl  in  all  Corinth  had  a  lover 
as  utterly  comic  and  foolish! 


i8  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Maia  all  but  laughed  outright  into  her  elderly  lover's 
face.  She  reflected,  in  time,  that  her  whole  future  life  de- 
pended on  what  she  had  determined,  this,  his  folly,  should  be 
made  to  accomplish. 

Maia  collected  her  quick  wits.  She  assumed  a  perfect 
attitude.  She  dropped  her  eyes  —  her  arms  fell  at  her  side. 
Her  whole  form  seemed  to  shrink  —  as  though  to  veil  its 
perfections  within  her  lilac  robes.  She  presented  the  very 
image  of  a  tender,  waiting  innocence.  Maia  had  not  helped 
to  teach  posture  and  gesture  to  stupid  chorus  lads,  without 
having  kept  some  of  the  secrets  of  the  art  of  acting  for  her 
own  use. 

Her  clever  play  produced  the  desired  effect.  Nirias  bent 
over  her  an  enraptured  face.  Never,  he  thought,  had  he 
seen  his  divine  Maia  as  adorable.  The  Maia  who  now  stood 
before  him,  Nirias  felt  he  had,  indeed,  never  seen  before. 

No  poet,  yet  Nirias  found  himself,  unconsciously,  quot- 
ing Homer. 

[ '  Beautiful-haired,  slender-ankled  ' —  O  Maia  —  be- 
loved, how  lovely  thou  art !  "  And  for  an  instant  Nirias 
stood  before  the  girl,  to  give  his  eyes  their  riot  of  joy  in  look- 
ing upon  her  fairness. 

No  softening  oil  lamps  were  tinting  the  snows  of  Maia's 
skin,  yet  the  gold  of  the  sunlight  made  face,  bared  arms, 
throat,  and  neck  glow  like  tinted  marble.  Every  changeful 
shade  of  the  violet  grey  eyes  could  be  caught  and  noted. 
Their  light  shed  a  sort  of  luminous  mist  before  them  — 
such  as  the  sculptors  sought  to  convey,  to  image  the  soul 
of  great  goddesses.  The  formless  lilac  garment,  with  its 
deeper  hued  violet  border,  had  been  skillfully  draped.  Be- 
neath the  high-worn  girdle,  the  folds  fell  with  statuesque 
pliability.  No  adornment  suited  Maia's  face  as  did  roses 
and  lilies.  A  wreath  of  these  latter  flowers  framed  the  deli- 
cate oval ;  and  the  pure  Attic  features  were  the  more  clearly 


NIRIAS  AND  MAIA  19 

accentuated,  by  the  deep  Greek  furrow  of  the  looped  tresses. 

"  Look  up,  dearest,"  Nirias  murmured,  with  trembling 
lips  —  his  deep-set  eyes  aflame  —  "  let  me  see  those  wondrous 
orbs.  Ah!  what  heavens  of  light!"  He  swept  a  swift, 
cautious  glance  about.  Then  he  drew  the  yielding  shape 
close.  "  Quick !  —  darling  —  one  —  kiss  —  one  —  no  one 
sees !  " 

Maia  gave  him  a  timid  affrighted  look.  But  she  took 
pains  to  make  her  struggle  short.  Again  an  impulse  of 
laughter  all  but  spoiled  the  moment.  She  could  barely 
command  her  lips  to  meet.  Once  caught,  however,  she  did 
not  measure  the  sweetness  of  the  kiss.  Nirias  must  be  made 
to  feel  to  the  full  the  magic  of  her  charm. 

"  Oh-h  Maia  —  beloved !  "  Nirias  panted,  with  swimming, 
love-sick  eyes.  To  find  her  standing  thus,  with  no  dreaded 
impulse  to  fly  from,  or  to  put  him  away,  made  Nirias  rap- 
turous —  elate.  Hitherto  Maia  had  always  seemed  to  elude 
his  grasp.  A  part  of  her  charm,  indeed,  had  been  her 
mingled  indifference  and  affright.  The  bird  most  difficult 
to  snare  is  ever  the  one  most  eagerly  watched  for  by  the 
hunter.  He  bent  over  the  girl.  Once  again  with  passion- 
ate clutch  he  drew  her  to  him.  He  whispered  hoarsely  in 
her  ear.  The  temptation  he  breathed  was  as  old  as  sin. 

Maia  heard  the  words  with  a  questioning  eye.  Then  her 
lips  met,  in  quick  decision.  The  moment  she  had  been 
waiting  for  had  come. 

Slipping  from  his  detaining  grasp,  Maia  stood  at  her 
full  height.  With  dexterous  grace  she  slid  her  thin  chiton 
below  her  shoulders.  She  turned  the  red-streaked  surface 
toward  the  merchant's  wondering  eyes. 

"  Indeed,  dear  Nirias,  I  will  come  —  only  —  see  —  this  is 
what  I  must  suffer,  when  you  are  not  here !  "  Maia  sent  her 
smile  across  her  shoulders.  It  was  that  of  a  suffering  god- 
dess. Her  eyes  rained  pain.  Turning,  she  faced  her  de- 


20  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

liverer.  The  child  already  had  learned  the  actor's  trick. 
Her  great  eyes  had  now  filled.  Her  young  bosom  rose  and 
fell  beneath  the  edge  of  her  lilac  garment. 

With  a  shout  and  an  angry  imprecation,  Nirias  started 
to  his  feet,  for  a  new  man  suddenly  awoke  in  him.  Before 
the  sight  of  that  fair  flesh,  encrimsoned,  ribboned  with  whip- 
strokes,  the  fountain  of  Nirias'  tenderness  flowed  forth. 

"  By  the  god  of  pity  —  but  this  is  not  to  be  borne !  "  he 
cried  out.  His  portly  chest  heaved  with  emotion.  He  lifted 
his  arm  above  Maia,  as  though  to  invoke  a  protecting  deity. 

Maia's  smile  would  have  lighted  the  darkest  of  caverns, 
for  she  knew  now  she  had  won  her  release.  She  lifted  her 
luminous  eyes,  and  all  the  asking  power  of  her  soul  was 
poured  into  her  deep  gaze. 

"  Dear  Nirias," —  Her  eyes  beamed  with  a  truly  goddess- 
like  look,  one  commanding  immediate  submission,  and  her 
smile  was  all  sweetness,  a  sweetness,  however,  seasoned  with 
assurance,  as  though  she  considered  the  matter  quite  set- 
tled. "  Now  you  perceive  why  it  will  be  best  for  you  to 
buy  me.  You  will  have  me  then,  for  your  very  own." 

This  was  no  slave's  face  that  bargained  for  a  change  of 
masters.  Surely,  some  noble  progenitors,  accustomed  to  com- 
mand, must  have  sent  their  authorative  message  through 
Maia's  compelling  glance.  For  Nirias  came  at  once  to  a 
mighty  decision.  The  soul  of  the  girl  he  loved  speaking 
to  him  through  her  moved  face  had  roused  all  that  was 
generous  in  his  nature.  With  tender  warmth,  he  clasped  the 
child  to  him. 

"Buy  you  —  sweet  one,"  he  cried  rapturously.  "If  it 
take  half  my  fortune —  I'll  free  you!  You  shall  be  your 
own  mistress,  as  you  are  the  mistress  of  an  old  man's  heart." 

Maia's  expressive  face,  for  an  instant  of  hesitation,  re- 
flected contending  emotions.  Wonder,  joy,  rapture  at  the 
sucqess  of  her  design  overwhelmed,  at  first,  all  other  consid- 


NIRIAS  AND  MAIA  21 

erations.  What  would  freedom  —  actual,  wonderful  free- 
dom really  mean?  Would  she  indeed  live  apart  from 
Manes  —  from  this,  the  only  world  she  had  ever  known  ? 
Would  Manes  be  sorrowful?  Would  the  hard,  but  excit- 
ing theatrical  life  end?  What  awaited  her  —  if  she  went 
with  Nirias? 

Corinth's  roar  beyond  the  garden  wall  seemed  to  answer. 
The  voices  of  the  gay,  voluptuous,  luxurious  hetasrae  — • 
voices  and  cries  she  knew,  had  heard,  and  had  envied  so 
often  —  these  voices  rang  in  her  ears. 

Shrinking,  she  scarcely  knew  how,  or  from  what  cause  — 
Maia  withdrew  from  her  deliverer's  clasp.  A  human,  an 
utterly  loveable  timidity  paled  the  grey-blue  eyes.  She 
looked  away  from  her  lover  —  she  stared  into  the  distance, 
as  though  once  more  to  question  the  desirability  of  this 
great,  this  unbelievable  future.  Her  utmost  hope  had  been 
that  Nirias  would  buy  her.  Freedom  seemed  a  burden  of 
responsibility  too  great  to  accept  unaided. 

"  Oh  —  I  am  afraid  —  afraid !  "  she  cried,  with  ringing 
voice.  She  suddenly  flung  herself  upon  Nirias.  He  and  the 
love  he  bore  her  seemed  the  only  safeguards  in  the  terrify- 
ing future  she  had  seen,  with  her  quick  mind,  dimly  out- 
lined. 

Nirias's  higher  nature  led  him  to  act  the  better  part. 
His  softness  in  certain  great  moments  was  probably  one  of 
the  secret  causes  why  his  women  had  always  ruled  him. 
He  drew  the  child  to  him,  with  the  protecting  gesture  of  a 
kindly  father. 

"  My  dear  —  I  shall  always  be  near  —  thou  needst  fear 
naught." 

With  a  child's  spontaneous  outburst  of  gratitude,  Maia 
flung  her  soft  arms  about  Nirias'  neck  —  as  she  cried, 

"  You  are   good  —  as   good   as  you   are  generous  —  and 
I  shall  try  to  love  you,"     In  another  instant  she  had  freed 


22  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

herself.  Her  instinct  for  quick  action  followed  close  upon 
her  emotional  impulse.  "  And  now,  let  us  seek  Manes !  " 

With  impassioned  energy,  she  led  Nirias  onward. 

Manes  was  found  sitting,  still  immovable,  upon  his  stool, 
in  a  shady  corner  of  the  terrace.  The  slanting  sun-rays 
were  dusting  the  trees  and  shrubs  about  him  with  purples 
and  with  gold.  The  distant  rounded  summit  of  Cyllene  was 
ablaze.  The  great  circle  of  mountains  that  made  Corinth 
seem  a  world  shut  out  from  all  Hellas  —  every  peak  and 
summit  now  wore  their  sunset  jewelled  lights.  Parnas- 
sus' early  snows  were  pink  as  coral.  Helicon's  double  peaks 
shone  like  uplifted  torches.  The  gulf,  far  below,  spread  out 
its  deepest  peacock  blues.  The  landscape  below  the  terrace, 
far  as  Sicyon's  silver  olive  groves  —  swam  unreal,  phantasmal 
—  fields  and  city  shrouded  in  gossamer  mists  of  gold. 

Manes  saw  nothing  —  knew  naught.  Earth,  sky,  his  city, 
his  world  were  lost  to  him.  But  his  pulses  were  singing. 
His  humour-loving  soul  was  shaken  by  the  wit,  by  the  truth- 
portraying  power  of  the  mighty  Athenian. 

Wholly  in  the  action  of  a  great  scene,  when  Nirias  called 
out  to  him,  Manes  started.  How  tiresome,  just  now  of  all 
moments,  to  have  his  patron  to  consider!  Why  should  he 
be  smiling,  in  that  foolish,  timid  way?  Why  was  he  hold- 
ing Maia  by  the  hand  ?  And  Maia,  why  should  she  appear, 
also,  garbed  in  her  festival  robes?  Surely  it  was  not  yet 
time  for  a  setting-forth  to  the  evening's  banquet. 

Out  of  the  confusion  of  his  wonderment,  he  heard  Maia 
speak.  Her  voice  was  sounding  new  notes.  The  tones 
were  strangely  authoritative. 

"  Dear  Nirias  —  once  again.  You  must  begin  at  the 
beginning.  Manes  has  not  in  the  least  understood." 

As  in  a  dream,  Manes  heard  himself  repeating  Nirias' 
amazing  announcement.  "  You  wish  to  buy  Maia  — " 

"Yes  —  for  I  intend  to  free  her." 


NIRIAS  AND  MAIA  23 

For  a  benevolent  man,  Nirias  was  looking  strangely  con- 
fused. A  last  wave  of  caution  had  swept  over  him.  Stand- 
ing thus,  above  the  city,  Nirias'  eyes  had  caught  sight  of 
the  trees  and  tombs  in  the  Kraneion.  The  memory  of  his 
wife's  frown  had  come  up  before  him,  with  startling 
clearness.  Habit  is  strong.  Nirias  insensibly  quailed  be- 
fore the  vision  of  Italia's  displeasure  —  and  what,  were  she 
alive,  he  would  have  had  to  bear  from  her  unrelenting  anger. 
The  purchase  of  Maia,  and  his  subsequent  care  of  the  girl 
began  to  assume  the  dulled  aspect  of  duty. 

Maia's  protecting  deity  surely  breathed  inspiration.  The 
girl  sent  her  love-beseeching  eyes  quickly  upward.  The 
warm  hand  that  lay  in  Nirias'  palm,  shot  its  appealing  pres- 
sure to  the  merchant's  responsive  soul.  The  memory  of 
Italia's  frown,  like  the  distant  burying  ground  —  swam  away 
into  misty  distance.  It  was  the  dead  lady's  last  struggle 
for  the  continuance  of  her  reign. 

The  chorus-master,  by  this  time,  was  well  out  of  his 
dream.  He  was  entirely  awake.  He  had  come  to  his  senses 
with  a  bound.  The  better  part  of  his  business  capital,  he 
realized  suddenly,  was  being  demanded  of  him. 

"  Buy  Maia !  but  indeed  sir,  she  is  not  for  sale !  "  he 
shouted.  In  his  anger  and  amazement,  Manes  forgot  his 
manners. 

The  merchant  was  equally  alive  in  Nirias'  clever,  trad- 
ing soul.  He  narrowed  his  heavy  lids.  His  gleaming  eyes 
shot  through  the  slits  the  born  trader's  look  of  mingled  cun- 
ning and  shrewdness. 

"  Man  alive  as  thou  art  —  all  things  are  for  sale  —  at  the 
right  price !  "  With  lordly  air,  the  merchant  named  a  sum 
that  made  Manes  start  away  from  him,  as  though  to  search 
for  a  madman's  next  move. 

There  was  a  long  moment  of  silence.  To  Maia  it  seemed 
the  very  longest  of  her  whole  life.  Manes'  eyes,  presently, 


24  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

began  to  shine.  He  sent  his  head  back,  with  the  gesture 
peculiar  to  him  when  he  came  to  a  mighty  decision.  The 
purchase  money,  he  quickly  reflected,  would  buy  a  house 
and  all  its  theatrical  furnishings,  in  the  very  city  of  the 
Isthmian  games.  He  already  saw  himself  leading  chorus- 
master.  He  would  outstrip  his  great  rival,  Kephalos  —  He 
would  show  all  Greece,  how  a  chorus  should  be  taught 
and  properly  trained  —  how  to  move  and  flow  like  an  en- 
circling river,  about  the  chief  actors.  How  he  would  cos- 
tume "  CEdipus,  his  CEdipus !  "  How  he  would  prove  his 
theories  true  —  in  the  teeth  of  all  critics  —  about  the  right 
dances  and  songs  for  Antigone,  never  yet,  according  to 
Manes,  rightly  given  on  the  Isthmus! 

In  the  stirring  whirl  of  his  thoughts,  Manes  no  more  re- 
membered the  child  Maia,  than  he  did  his  meanest  slave. 
Their  daily  life  in  common,  the  joy  he  had  felt  in  watch- 
ing the  babe  grow  into  a  child,  the  child  become  a  maiden, 
the  maiden  blossom  into  a  full-fledged,  an  almost,  perfect 
artist ;  their  years  of  artistic  fellowship ;  his  very  dependence 
upon  Maia's  aid,  help,  judgment,  in  every  act  and  duty  of 
his  life,  this  memory  of  Maia's  services  and  of  her  talents, 
was  swallowed  up  in  the  near,  the  intoxicating  vision  of 
realizing  his  own  hitherto  thwarted,  but  passionately  longed- 
for  ambitions.  The  prospect  Nirias'  extravagance  opened 
out  to  him  made  every  sense  reel  with  rapture. 

Manes  threw  back  his  massive  head  and  his  shout  rang 
out  — 

"  By  Aphrodite's  bright  locks ! —  if  all  flute-girls  and 
slaves  were  worth  what  Maia  is  to  thee  —  we  chorus- 
masters  could  soon  make  our  fortunes !  " 

"  Ah-h  —  but  all  flute  girls  are  not  Maia !  "  cried  Nirias, 
his  exultation  flaming  in  his  eyes. 

Nirias  then  clapped  his  hands.     His  two  body  slaves  in- 


NIRIAS  AND  MAIA  25 

stantly  made  their  appearance.  Nirias  turned,  with  his  lord- 
liest air,  to  the  Persian. 

"  Mago  —  thou  wilt  come  to-morrow,  for  the  maiden 
Maia.  Let  the  litter  be  sent  before  noon." 

Mago  swept  his  master  a  comprehensive,  understanding 
side  glance.  With  the  supple,  soundless  tread  of  his  race, 
he  took  up  his  position  beside  Nirias.  The  Gaul  was  al- 
ready in  his  place. 

Nirias  bent  over  to  imprint  a  kiss  on  Maia's  brow.  "  Till 
to-morrow  then  —  I  leave  thee." 

"  Till  to-morrow,"  echoed  Maia,  dazed,  with  her  eyes 
adrift.  She  watched  him  go,  between  his  two  human  props. 
He  and  his  slaves  were  a  part  of  the  strange,  new  world 
her  freedom  had  brought  to  her.  Once  his  mantle  had 
swept  the  last  terrace  step,  Maia  lifted  her  eyes  to  her 
master.  Triumph,  glad  vengeance,  a  rich  joy  shone  through 
the  large  orbs. 

She  was  standing  now  close  in  front  of  Manes,  and  she 
sent  her  words  forth,  into  his  very  beard. 

"  What  did  I  tell  you?  Have  I  not  made  good  my  vow? 
Why  don't  you  take  the  whip  to  me  now  —  once  more?" 

Maia  laughed  the  words  out  with  joyous  ring.  Her  de- 
light was  complete.  To  find  she  was  worth  three  times  as 
much  as  she  imagined  she  would  bring  was  no  small  part 
of  her  joy.  Even  as  her  laughter  rang  out,  Maia  drew 
back,  startled  —  amazed,  and  her  gay  shout  died  on  her  lips. 
For  Manes'  face  was  a  wonder  to  look  upon.  It  had  sen- 
sibly paled,  and  the  rudely  modelled  features  were  struggling, 
as  though  vainly  endeavoring  to  conceal  some  strong  emo- 
tion. Maia  could  have  sworn  her  master's  eyes  were  glisten- 
ing. Could  it  be  possible  he  cared  —  that  he  was  really 
sorrowful  at  losing  her?  Her  vengeance  suddenly  seemed  to 
have  shrunk  to  a  mean  action.  It  made  her  feel  poor  and 


26  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

small.  She  put  forth  her  hands,  to  stroke  the  face  now 
bent  over  her ;  and  her  own  eyes,  she  felt,  indeed,  were  rilling 
fast. 

"  And  so  —  dear  Maia  —  I  am  to  lose  thee  ?  " 

Manes'  rough  voice  shook;  and  in  his  eyes  Maia  saw  the 
glitter  of  real  tears. 

For  the  first  time  in  all  the  long  years  of  their  common 
toil,  and  common  triumphs,  Manes  knew  with  startling  cer- 
tainty, that  always  —  since  Maia's  baby-hood,  he  had  loved 
this  clever  child. 

He  strained  Maia  to  him  with  the  fierceness  of  paternal 
love.  "  No !  No !  thou  shalt  not  —  thou  shalt  not  —  go 
from  me !  "  he  cried  out,  a  sob  in  his  throat. 

"  But  —  Manes  —  you've  sold  me  you,  know  — "  cried 
Maia  to  his  unreason.  "  O-h  why  did  you?  " 

To  Maia  had  also  come  the  awakening  of  full  conscious- 
ness. The  passion  of  anger,  her  deep,  intense  longing  for 
revenge,  that  had  swept  her  to  the  crest  of  accomplishment, 
this  wave  had  spent  its  force.  Her  soul,  like  Manes',  was 
being  tossed  and  whirled  about,  on  the  broad  shore  of  real- 
ity. No  more  than  her  master,  could  she  face  the  vague, 
terrifying  features  of  this  new  world.  What  had  she  done? 
What  would  happen  to  her? 

And  now,  what  was  Manes  saying?  As  out  of  a  dream 
she  heard  his  voice,  and,  as  she  dazedly  lifted  her  lids,  again 
she  noted  the  same  strange  film  shadowing  Manes'  eyes. 

Once  again  his  hand  had  sought  hers. 

"  Maia,  my  dear  — "  he  began,  as  he  bent  over  her  a 
wondrous  loving  look,  "  Dear  one  —  before  thou  goest  forth 
into  the  world,  it  is  but  right  that  I  should  tell  thee  thy 
history." 

Maia  laughed,  as  she  shook  her  head,  incredulously  — 
"Alas!  and  what  history  have  slaves?"  and  she  sent  her 
eyes  adrift. 


NIRIAS  AND  MAIA  27 

But  Manes  gave  the  hand  he  held  a  vigorous  pressure, 
And  he  rose  as  he  said,  with  an  imperious  emphasis  — " 

"  Come  —  and  listen  —  for  I  must,  indeed,  tell  thee  all  I 
know." 

And  this  time  Maia  heeded  his  words. 


Chapter  III 
MAIA'S  HISTORY 

MANES  and  Maia  had  bent  their  steps,  instinctively,  to- 
ward the  rude  bench  on  which  Nirias  had  sat.  For  long 
years  it  had  been  the  favorite  seat  of  master  and  slave. 

From  sheer  habit,  Manes  had  sent  his  eyes  abroad;  but 
they  were  wide,  set,  fixed ; —  his  whole  soul  was  in  his  pur- 
pose;—  his  mind  was  tense  with  inward  drama.  So  strong 
was  the  necessity  upon  him  to  speak,  to  yield  up  the  secret 
of  long  years,  he  felt  himself  supernaturally  led.  It  was 
as  though  the  finger  of  fate  was  upon  his  lips  —  command- 
ing him  to  speak. 

Maia  waited.  She  had  even  taken  time  to  lift  her  best, 
her  festival  robes,  lest  the  frail  tissue  be  marred  by  the 
mould  upon  the  stones.  Then  she  laughed  lightly,  merrily 
—  for  a  sudden  thought  brought  joyous  surprise.  What 
mattered  it  whether  this  much-respected  garment  were 
spoiled?  She  could  toss  it  in  disdain  to  Mylete,  the  slave 
girl,  whose  love  of  fine  raiment  would,  surely,  soon  make 
of  her  a  votary  of  Venus.  Even  as  she  smiled,  at  the 
thought  of  Mylete's  delight,  Maia  raised  her  eyes,  enquir- 
ingly—  yet  she  felt  no  devouring  wonderment.  She  knew 
Manes  capable  of  any  lie.  She  merely  waited,  with  the 
patience  her  hard  youth  and  Manes'  whip  had  taught  her, 
for  some  clever  invention.  It  really  mattered  little  what 
he  told  her  —  his  lie,  or  even  the  truth,  could  alter  noth- 
ing. She  was  free  —  the  knowledge  of  that  great  and 
glorious  fact  flooded  her  whole  being. 

Her  happy  eyes  were  held,  therefore,  steadfast,  smiling, 
upon  her  master's  face. 

28 


MAIA'S  HISTORY  29 

Manes  was  now  looking  out  across  the  city.  His  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  the  opposite  hillside.  Clasping  his  hands 
upon  his  uplifted  knee,  he  began  his  tale,  with  his  eyes  still 
upon  the  mauve  hills  — 

"  Years  ago  —  Maia,  my  girl  —  I  had  the  longing  com- 
mon to  all  Hellas  —  to  all  the  known  world.  I  must  see 
Athens  or  die!  Her  great  temples,  shining  out  across  the 
sea,  yonder,  year  after  year,  their  glory  had  seemed  to  call 
louder  and  louder.  Well  —  I  chose  my  time  —  and  with 
care.  It  was  when  the  city  was  freshest  from  Phidias' 
chisel.  At  the  time  of  the  great  festival,  the  Panathenaea, 
Athens  was  not  thinking  of  Sparta's  hate,  or  of  her  shields. 
She  was  busy  garlanding  altars  and  statues,  in  Athena's  hon- 
our—" 

"  Yes  —  yes —  I  know,  all  this  you  have  told  me  —  again 
and  again,"  Maia  burst  forth;  her  impatience  had  gripped 
her  and  was  now  pricking  her,  beyond  control  — "  It  was 
all  wonderful  and  glorious.  But  where  does  my  history 
figure  in  all  this  ?  "  And  her  lips  curled,  with  light  scorn. 
Manes'  laugh  rang  out.  He  lifted  his  hand  to  stroke 
the  golden  tresses  falling  below  her  white  wreath.  It  was 
one  way  of  gaining  time. 

"What  a  child  thou  art!  Well,  I'll  hasten  my  tale. 
On  the  night  following  the  festival,  I  betook  me  to  the 
Ceramicus.  I  must  see  the  carving  and  sculptures  on  the 
famous  tombs.  For  the  tombs  were  as  wonderful  as  any 
of  the  other  works  of  art,  in  the  city  — 

"  The  moon  was  shining,  I  remember  —  so  were  the  fig- 
ures and  faces  carved  on  the  stelas.  The  shadows  of  the 
cypresses  made  the  faces  very  living.  There  were  some 
so  real  they  seemed  standing  before  you  —  as  if  about  to 
speak,  tenderly  and  softly,  as  those  should,  who  have  pre- 
ceded us  —  down  the  shades  — 

"  Well  —  as  I  was  walking  about,  thinking  what  artists, 


30  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

after  all,  these  Athenians  were,  what  should  I  hear  but  a  cry. 
It  made  me  shake  and  shiver,  I  can  tell  you,  this  cry  out  of 
the  great  quiet  —  for  there's  no  stillness  so  terrifying  as 
that  of  graves. 

"  Well  —  I  stood,  trembling  and  quaking,  as  still  as  the 
graves,  and  I  hid  in  the  shadow  of  a  tall  cypress  —  for  if 
any  of  Hecate's  tricks  were  to  be  played  upon  me,  I  in- 
tended to  be  ready.  Never  did  I  listen  as  then  I  listened  — 

"  The  cry  came  louder  and  louder.  Piercing  though  it 
was,  I  knew  it  to  be  the  wail  of  a  suckling  babe.  All  fear 
then  went  from  me.  I  went  towards  the  sound.  As  I 
walked, —  I  saw  thee  —  my  little  Maia  —  Your  tiny  arms 
were  stretched  out  as  you  saw  me  coming.  Small  as  they 
were,  I  saw  they  were  round  and  warm  with  life.  Again 
your  cry  rang  out  —  and  my  heart  rose  up  within  me  at 
the  sight  of  this  living  babe  among  the  silent  graves." 

Manes  stopped  short.  Emotionable,  impressionable,  the 
chorus-master  caught  his  breath.  The  scene  he  had  ren- 
dered in  his  vivid,  forcible  manner,  seemed  to  rise  up  be- 
fore him,  as  though  the  Maia  beside  him  were  still  a  help- 
less babe,  were  holding  out  her  infant  arms,  and  about 
them  both  there  shone  the  blanched  and  quiet  sculptured 
tombstones. 

Of  the  Maia  beside  him,  whose  breathing  now  came  in 
quick,  shortened  gasps,  the  master  seemed  hardly  con- 
scious. Manes'  eyes  were  wide  and  staring,  fixed  upon  the 
distant,  waving  lines  of  azure,  that,  in  the  north-eastern 
horizon,  marked,  for  every  Corinthian  eye,  the  nearer  in- 
tense purples  of  Persea  melting  into  the  distant  mauves  of 
the  Attican  outlines. 

With  an  effort,  Manes  brought  himself  back  to  his  actual 
surroundings.  WTien  he  spoke,  his  voice  perceptibly  shook, 
and  before  he  went  on  with  his  tale,  he  gave  a  deep  sigh. 
He  had  suddenly  remembered  all  that  had  happened;  how 
this  babe  he  had  grown  to  love  —  to  look  upon  as  his  very 


MAIA'S  HISTORY  31 

own,  more  and  more  become  a  very  part  of  his  life  —  was 
now  irrevocably  lost,  would  soon  have  gone  into  a  world 
as  far  removed  from  this  theatrical  world  as  was  Athens 
from  Corinth. 

With  a  gesture  as  instinctive  as  it  was  impassioned,  Manes 
grasped  Maia's  hand  that  lay  upon  her  knee,  and,  holding 
it  thus,  he  went  on  with  his  tale. 

"  Whoever  had  put  you  there,  among  the  dead,  my  dear, 
had  done  the  deed  with  an  aching  heart.  For  you  were 
wrapped  in  fine  linen,  the  basket  you  were  laid  in  was  of  the 
best  weaving,  and,  upon  your  baby  neck  was  clasped  this 
chain  — " 

Manes  drew  from  his  tunic  a  slender  golden  chain. 
As  he  bent  toward  Maia,  he  pointed,  with  his  long  finger, 
rimmed  with  black  beneath  the  nail,  to  some  letters  chis- 
elled upon  the  dull  jewelled  clasp.  The  inscription  had  the 
sharp,  clear  grace  of  Attic  cutting. 

"  As  you  see,"  Manes  went  on  to  say,  "  Here  is  your 
name,  '  Maia,'  cut  into  the  very  stone.  You  were  no  poor 
man's  child,  that  was  quite  obvious  — " 

Maia  clutched  at  the  chain.  She  read  her  name  on  the 
square  of  gleaming  topaz  with  wide  eyes.  She  could  not 
believe  either  eyes  or  ears.  That  Manes'  strange  tale  should 
actually  be  the  story  of  her  own  infancy,  of  her  Athenian 
birth  —  of  her  parents'  cruel  desertion  —  the  attempt  to 
realize  these  portentous  facts  momentarily  paralized  mind 
and  body. 

The  amulet  before  her  rivetted  her  eyes.  As  though 
some  sorcerer  had  worked  his  art  by  means  of  the  yellow' 
stone,  Maia's  gaze  grew  more  and  more  fixed,  and  rigid. 
Even  when  Manes  began  anew,  she  scarce  secerned  to  heed- 
his  voice. 

"Putting  you  there  —  among  the  dead — instead  of 
nearer  to  the  road,  or  on  the  temple  steps, —  where  passers- 


32  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

by  would  see  you,  and  at  once  —  I  have  always  thought, 
was  a  clever  scheme  for  reclaiming  you, —  later  on  — " 

Maia  dreamily  lifted  her  great  eyes.  She  found  Manes' 
again  suddenly,  strangely  moved.  The  muscles  of  the  pow- 
erful face  were  working  as  though  an  inward  problem  were 
being  painfully  solved.  He  collected  his  wits,  presently, 
and  went  on  — 

"  Well  —  my  dear  — 'twas  you  yourself  decided  your  fate 
—  You  stretched  out  your  arms  to  me  —  and  I  took  the 
action  to  mark  the  will  of  Theseus. 

"  I  lifted  you,  basket  and  all.  I  carried  you  in  my 
cloak,  back  with  me  to  Corinth.  And  I  have,  and  you  have 
the  gods  to  thank  —  that,  as  good  a  father  as  your  own 
could  have  been,  whoever  he  might  have  been,  has  Manes 
the  chorus-master  been  to  you." 

Here  Manes  actually  wiped  a  tear  away.  On  the  prin- 
ciple that  we  love  best  those  on  whom  we  bestow  the  most, 
Manes  felt  to  full  the  force  of  that  tender  affection  that 
moved  him  to  bestow  so  many  blows  on  his  favourite  pupil. 

Maia  sat  motionless.  The  weight  of  her  amazement 
kept  her  immovable.  She  stared  out  at  the  tinted  city  — 
at  the  violet  hills  —  and,  though  her  gaze  rested  on  the 
distant  pink  peaks  of  misty  Parnassus,  nothing  of  all  that 
glory  did  she  see.  The  loveliest  prospect  in  all  Hellas  was 
meaningless  beside  the  raging  tumult  of  her  bewildered 
thoughts. 

Out  of  the  chaos  of  her  wonder,  one  or  two  facts  grew 
clear  —  of  definite  outline.  If  an  Athenian,  then,  presum- 
ably, she  was  free-born.  Her  parents  might,  it  was  true, 
have  been  metics.  But  foreign-born  Athenian  residents, 
she  remembered,  rarely  exposed  their  children.  The  full 
force  of  Manes'  astounding  revelation  came  to  her  —  it  lay 
in  the  one  glorious  fact  that  she  —  Maia  —  was  an  Athe- 
nian. Of  all  the  amazing  adventures  and  exciting  changes 


MAIA'S  HISTORY  33 

that  had  come  to  Maia,  in  this  one  great  day  of  all  her 
life,  this  fact  thrilled  her  to  the  depths  of  her  being. 

In  the  ecstacy  of  her  joy,  Maia  rose  to  her  feet.  She 
beat  her  hands,  as  though  the  soft  palms  were  clinking  cym- 
bals. Tossing  her  head  backwards,  she  faced  the  sky. 
Heaven  itself  must  hear  the  glad  news. 

"  I'm  free  —  free!  "  she  shouted  to  the  radiant  blue  arch 
above  her.  "  And  I  am  an  Athenian  —  an  Athenian ! 
Oh,  Manes  —  how  glorious  to  be  born  in  the  Violet- 
crowned  !  "  She  stopped  her  dance  of  joy  to  beat  her  glad 
hands  before  her  master's  impassive  face.  In  this,  her  mo- 
ment of  exaltation,  Maia  felt,  indeed,  as  though  she  must 
sweep  her  former  master  to  the  heights  of  her  own  rap- 
ture—  or  her  joy  would  miss  its  full  completeness.  She 
bent  over  him;  she  took  his  hands  in  hers,  she  must  en- 
velop him  with  the  gladness  of  this  intoxicating  moment. 
He  also  must  rejoice  —  must  be  one  with  her  in  this  great- 
est of  all  the  moments  of  her  life. 

"  Listen  Manes  —  listen !  "  she  cried.  "  Since  I  am  an 
Athenian  —  I  shall  make  Nirias  take  me  —  and  quickly  — 
to  Athens.  And  you  shall  come.  We  will  see  every- 
thing together.  Think  of  it  —  think  of  the  joy  before  us! 
All  Athens  to  see  —  and  to  know  I  am  one  of  its  citizens !  " 

As  though  to  prove  true  her  boast,  Maia's  features 
showed,  as  never  before,  the  precision  and  purity  of  their 
Attic  outlines.  Emotion  had  paled  the  girl's  skin.  The 
small,  delicately-moulded  features  were  clear-cut,  as  ex- 
quisite in  perfection  of  finish  as  though  done  into  marble. 

Manes  looked  at  the  face  so  close  to  his  own,  with  new 
eyes.  He  seemed,  and  for  the  first  time,  to  take  note  of 
his  former  slave's  title  to  beauty  —  and  to  a  beauty  of  rare 
distinction.  He  drew  the  moved  face  to  him,  with  gentle 
hands,  caressed  it,  questioned  each  feature  as  though  new 
to  him,  as  he  cried,  with  light  mockery, 


34  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

"  By  Aphrodite's  blue  orbs,  child !  but  thy  mother  —  who- 
ever she  may  be  —  had  best  reclaim  thee,  and  swiftly  — 
else  the  youth  of  Athens  will  make  Nirias'  beard  as  grey 
as  mine,  in  a  week's  time !  " 

Maia's  face  softened.  "  Ah  —  my  kindred,"  she  breathed. 
"  We  will  tell  every  one  my  story.  Athens  is  small  —  all 
that  is  heard  in  the  Agora  is  known,  and  quickly,  it  is  said, 
throughout  the  city." 

The  girl  turned  her  gaze  toward  the  far  distant  Attican 
range  —  greying  fast  in  the  twilight's  purpling.  The  mar- 
bles of  the  Parthenon  she  had  seen  so  often  glittering,  on 
fair  days,  from  the  lofty  Acro-Corinthus  heights  —  to  know 
that  she  —  Maia  —  Manes'  former  slave  and  pupil  —  pos- 
sessed the  right  to  feel  an  ownership  in  such  Athenian, 
such  world-famous  glories,  made  fresh  thrills  of  joy  sweep 
her  frame. 

Maia  felt,  indeed,  her  very  soul  shaken.  The  visions  her 
quick  imagination  conjured  up,  made  her  pulses  sing.  Once 
more  she  was  as  far  away  from  the  rude  stool,  and  the 
huge  form  beside  her,  as  she  was  oblivious  of  Manes'  pres- 
ence. 

Since  indeed,  she  was  doubly  free,  she  would  do  won- 
derful things.  Yes  —  she  would  make  Nirias  take  her  to 
Athens  —  she  would  have  Manes  and  the  slaves  go,  and 
at  once,  to  the  Agora.  Once  her  story  was  told,  her  par- 
ents would  come  forward  —  they  would  be  delighted  to 
acknowledge  a  daughter  possessed  of  so  many  accomplish- 
ments. She  would  present  poor  old  Nirias  as  the  generous 
man  who  had  freed  her,  her  father  wrould  give  him  a  splen- 
did banquet,  at  which  would  be  the  beautiful  Athenian 
who  would  wish  to  marry  her,  after  having  heard  of  her 
beauty  and  talents. 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  coursed  through  Maia's 
childish  mind.  All  her  future  lay  mapped  out  before  her, 


MAIA'S  HISTORY  35 

as  clear  as  the  shining  coastlines  of  Attica,  from  the  heights 
of  the  Citadel. 

Another  picture,  suddenly,  rose  up.  Manes'  boastful 
words  came  back  to  her.  He  —  a  father  to  her!  Would 
any  father  have  treated  her  as  he  had  done?  What  had 
her  life  been  but  that  of  a  slave  and  the  hardest  of  hard- 

(  worked  slaves?  Her  toil  in  that  house  of  never-ending 
work  —  the  long  hours  of  standing,  of  playing  to  dull 
chorus  youths,  to  mark  their  awkward  steps,  the  vigorous 
scourgings  for  the  least  musical  mistake  —  the  keeping  in 
order  of  the  whole  theatrical  wardrobe,  and,  wearied  though 
she  might  be  unto  death,  yet  must  she  dress  herself  with 
care,  and  play  and  play  to  drunken  banqueters,  Oh-h  the 
hateful,  wearisome  life! 

Why  had  she  been  made  to  endure  all  this,  since  Manes 
knew  her  to  be  Athenian  born? 

Then  Maia  remembered  the  law. 

Exposed  children  became  as  slaves  to  those  who  took 
them  and  cared  for  them.  In  spite  of  her  knowledge  of 
this  law,  Maia  felt  her  blood  suddenly  boil  with  anger, 
Never  had  she  known  the  power  of  rage  thus  to  shake  the 
frame  —  thus  to  make  one  feel  aflame  one  instant,  and  ice 
the  next.  Maia  was  a  true  Greek,  in  the  swift  changes  that 
came  to  govern  her  mood. 

Still  in  the  fury  of  her  wrath,  Maia  turned  to  face 
Manes  with  eyes  starting  from  her  head,  and  her  words 
came  chokingly,  as  she  gripped  Manes  with  a  fierce  clutch  — 

"  Since  you  knew  I  was  Athenian-born,  why  did  you  treat 
me  like  the  lowest  of  slaves?  tell  me  that!  " 

Manes'  laughter  shook  him,  as  he  loosened  the  slender- 
tipped  but  strong  fingers.  He  looked  down  into  the  crim- 
soned face,  and  again  he  passed  his  free  hand  over  the  gold  of 
the  falling  tresses  with  a  loving  caress,  as  he  said  in  a  gleeful 
tone, 


36  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

"  Ah-h,  my  pretty  tigress  —  not  so  tight !  You  have 
sharp  claws."  Manes  now  laughed  with  real  heartiness. 
The  girl's  anger  amused  him.  "  There,  there,  that  is  bet- 
ter;" he  cried,  as  his  large,  powerful  hand  closed  over 
Maia's  small,  pointed  fingers.  He  laid  her  hands  one  over 
the  other,  against  the  folds  of  her  chiton.  "  There  —  a 
girl's  hands  are  prettiest  when  they  lie  curled,  so, —  like 
flowers  in  her  lap.  You  have  pretty  fingers,  my  Maia  — 
as  all  the  youth  of  Corinth  will  soon  tell  you  —  for  you 
were  never  born  to  live  solely  with  the  old,  and  with  grey 
beards." 

Maia's  laughter  was  now  joined  to  Manes' — she  had 
made  a  second  sudden,  but  more  mirthful  spring  at  her 
master's  beard. 

"Let  go!  my  girl,  let  go!  Ah-h  —  you  will?  You'll 
try  your  strength  on  the  old,  you'll  scratch,  will  you,  or 
bite,  when  you  fail  to  strike?  There  —  calm  your  high 
spirits  —  save  your  claws'  skill  for  others,  who  know  not, 
as  I  do,  how  cats  and  women  can  scratch  —  you'll  need 
both  strength  and  claws  in  the  life  that  is  to  come  to  you 
—  for  all  your  freedom  —  And  now  come  —  We've  had 
excitement  enough  to  whet  the  appetite  —  it  seems  to  me  — 
for  one  day." 

Maia  echoed  Manes'  laughter.  She  circled  his  arm  with 
her  two  hands,  as  both  made  their  way  towards  the  house. 

Before  entering  the  now  darkening  court,  she  withdrew 
her  clasp;  she  turned  to  face  the  glory  that  lay  about  and 
below  the  terrace.  As  Maia  looked,  she  sighed.  It  was 
the  last  time  she  would  watch  the  colour  flame,  and  wait 
for  the  stars  to  grow,  in  the  purple  sky.  This,  her  home 
on  the  terrace,  would  be  left  forever.  On  the  morrow, 
she  would  be  a  part  of  the  glowing,  splendid  city  yonder. 
She  would  be  lying  on  a  sumptuous  couch,  with  slaves  to  run 
before  her. 


Chapter  IV 

ON   TO   ATHENS 

DURING  the  months  that  were  to  follow,  of  all  Maia's 
dreams,  only  one  was  to  come  true.  She  won  Nirias  to 
fulfil  her  longing  hope.  After  scenes  in  which  tears  and 
outburst  of  anger  were  succeeded  by  tender  cajoling,  Nirias 
consented  to  take  her  to  Athens.  And  Manes  was  to  be  of 
the  company. 

Nirias  had  yielded;  but  the  unspoken  hope  that  made 
now  of  every  waking  moment  in  Maia's  life  the  animating 
purpose  —  her  longing  to  find  her  kindred  —  this  deeply 
cherished  desire  would  have  small  chance  of  accomplishment. 

Nirias  planned  the  journey  with  the  care  a  man  takes 
when  he  has  a  treasure  to  guard,  that  has  become  dearer 
than  life  itself. 

He  chose  the  time  of  the  year  when  Athens  was  at  its 
gayest,  when  the  crowd  of  strangers  from  every  part  of  the 
world  would  so  pack  the  streets  of  the  chief  city  in  Hellas 
that  the  advent  of  even  so  great  a  beauty  as  Maia  would  ex- 
cite but  little  comment. 

As  for  Maia's  wild  project  of  finding  her  people,  in  such 
a  multitude  one  might  as  well  search  for  the  buried  statues 
on  the  Acropolis. 

Nothing  of  all  this  did  wise  Nirias  say  to  his  little  Maia. 
He  dazzled  her,  with  the  planning  of  the  journey  on  a  scale 
of  magnitude  that  seemed  to  her  untravelled  inexperience, 
to  embrace  every  quarter  of  the  universe.  They  would 
take  ship  for  the  Ionian  Islands  —  they  would  see  Melos, 
sacred  Delos  should  be  visited, —  they  would  touch  at 

37 


38  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Nauplia, —  and  make  their  way  thus  to  the  nearest  Athenian 
port,  at  the  very  time  when  the  city  was  at  its  wildest  mo- 
ment of  gay  worship. 

Unsuspecting  Maia  shrieked  for  joy,  as  the  entrancing 
voyage  was  talked  over. 

"You  are  the  best  of  men !  the  dearest,  the  kindest !  "  and 
with  one  of  her  tender  impulses,  she  flung  her  glad  arms 
about  Nirias,  and  covered  his  radiant  face  with  kisses. 
Then  her  own  smile  died  into  a  sober  look,  "  I  must  make 
all  necessary  preparations !  "  and  she  whirled  herself  away, 
followed  by  Nirias'  happy  laughter. 

How  she  would  haunt  the  shops!  what  wonders  of  rare 
tissues,  of  fabulously  costly  embroideries  she  would  discover! 
And  what  marvellous  new  combinations  she  would  devise ! 
Already  in  Corinth,  whatever  Maia  wore  was  the  height  of 
the  fashion,  the  next  day. 

Nirias,  meanwhile,  proceeded  to  business. 

His  first  care  was  to  write  to  Crates  of  the  Piraeus.  This 
Crates  was  his  oldest  and  one  of  his  dearest  friends.  Like 
Nirias,  the  Piraean  had  made  his  own  fortune.  Like  him 
also,  both  were  become  famous.  Crates,  more  than  any 
other  Athenian,  had  done  the  most  to  extend  Athenian 
commerce;  his  ships  were  in  every  harbour.  And  the  Pir- 
aean's  great  house  on  Munychia  hill,  just  above  the  port, 
was  known  far  and  wide  for  its  statues  and  costly  tapestries. 

Under  ordinary  circumstances,  Nirias  would  have  gone 
direct  to  Crates'  house.  But  Crates  had  a  son. 

This  Ion,  it  appeared,  was  the  most  desirable  of  sons, 
from  Crates'  point  of  view.  From  the  standpoint  of  a 
wary  and  jealous  middle-aged  lover,  Ion  was  one  to  be 
avoided  as  carefully  as  one  would  the  plague.  He  was 
handsome,  clever,  had  become  the  intimate  of  the  most  ex- 
clusive Athenian  set  of  young  aristocrats,  and  was  fast  be- 
coming an  accepted  favourite. 


ON  TO  ATHENS 


39 


Such  a  combination  of  qualities  and  successful  achieve- 
ment would  frighten  the  most  courageous  of  men.  Added 
to  these  serious  disadvantages  —  from  Nirias'  point  of  view 
—  there  was  a  still  greater  deterrent — one  that  made  going 
to  Crates  entirely  out  of  the  question.  This  precious 
Ion  had  but  just  returned  from  a  prolonged  Asian  journey. 

Since  Nirias  could  not  run  the  chance  of  offending  Crates, 
by  appearing  in  Athens  without  announcing  his  arrival, 
there  was  but  one  thing  to  be  done  —  Crates  must  be  taken 
into  his  —  Nirias'  confidence.  Nirias  carefully  made  plain, 
in  his  long  letter,  all  the  many  excellent  reasons  there  were 
for  his  owrn  landing  at  Phalerum  instead  of  sailing  into  the 
Piraean  harbour,  and  the  wisdom  of  having  as  short  a  dis- 
tance as  possible  to  traverse,  to  gain  the  theatre.  Would 
dear  Crates  meet  the  ship  at  the  smaller  Port? 


Chapter  V 

AN   INVOCATION 

IT  was  the  third  day  in  Athens,  of  the  festival  of  Dionysus. 
Long  before  dawn,  a  trim  ship  glided  over  the  faintly  rip- 
pled waters  of  the  /Egsean. 

A  single  figure  stood  out  upon  the  vessel's  prow. 
Shrouded  in  violet-hued  draperies,  the  motionless  watcher 
swept  the  great  scene  with  eyes  that  roved  far  and  wide. 
The  restless  orbs  seemed  to  pierce  the  light  mists  as  though 
to  search  for  the  first  sight  of  the  hills  and  the  low  up- 
lands. 

A  shepherd's  call,  across  the  nearest  hillslope,  brought 
to  the  girl  her  first  sip  of  rapture.  She  started,  as  a  long, 
glad  shout  rang  out.  From  one  hill,  and  then  from  an- 
other answering  greetings  came.  As  the  gay  shouts  re- 
sounded through  the  clear  Attic  air,  Maia  laughed  aloud, 
for  pure  joy. 

"  'Tis  the  shepherds  who  are  the  first  to  feel  the  stirrings 
of  the  kindly  god !  "  she  cried.  And  then  she  listened,  with 
all  her  power  of  hearing,  that  no  pleasant  sound  might  es- 
cape her. 

Hill  echoed  back  to  hill  the  festival  greeting.  Over  the 
now  tinted  grasses,  the  grey-backed  sheep  moved,  like  a  slip- 
ping river.  Pipings  and  flutings  rose  up, —  the  delicate  air 
resounded  with  melodious  tunes. 

A  thrill  that  coursed  like  flame  swept  through  Maia's 
quivering  frame.  Every  sound  seemed  to  touch  the  very 
depth  of  feeling.  And  no  part  of  the  great  spectacle  seemed 
strange. 

40 


AN  INVOCATION  41 

As  Phoebus  sent  his  heralds  forth,  as  above  Hymettus 
the  pink  clouds  caught  the  rising  glow  —  Maia  lifted  her 
arms.  With  hands  high  held,  she  opened  her  lips  and 
sang.  The  famous  Apolline  hymn  came  as  spontaneously  as 
though  she  had  sung  thus  to  dawning  Athens  not  once,  but 
again  and  again.  And  as  the  melodious  notes  rose  up,  the 
features  of  the  great  prospect  grew  clearer  and  ever  clearer. 

Lycabettus,  that  had  worn  its  shroud  of  grey,  now  shone 
like  an  uplifted  javelin,  fire-smitten.  The  Megaran  hills 
were  long  planes  of  light.  Fames'  brow  was  rose-flushed 
—  it  had  felt  the  kiss  of  dawn ;  and  trembling,  the  far-dis- 
tant peaks  swam  into  misty  outlines  —  their  tops  rimmed 
with  gold. 

Hills  and  skies  appeared  to  send  downward  a  something 
spiritual  —  an  unearthly  lightness,  an  ecstacy  of  some  sort. 
It  was  as  though  Dionysus  himself,  the  mysterious  instigator 
of  sensation  and  enthusiasm,  already  held  in  upper  heaven 
his  brimming  wine-cup.  This  generous  god  —  the  miracle- 
worker  who  could  transform  the  dead,  inert  earth  into 
blossom-crowned  Spring,  meant  men  to  worship  him  with 
rapture  and  transport.  Therefore  it  was,  the  hills  sang, 
and  the  skies  wore  a  golden  chaplet. 

Long  before  Maia's  song  came  to  an  end,  the  tears  were 
streaming  down  her  cheeks.  It  was  not  alone  her  lips  that 
sang  —  her  soul  had  gone  forth  to  meet  every  wondrous 
feature  of  the  splendid  scene  in  awed  rapture.  Ancestral 
fires  burned  within. 

And  thus  it  was  Maia  went  up  to  Athens. 


Chapter  VI 

THE    FEAST   OF   DIONYSUS 

ON  this,  the  third  morning  of  the  festival  time,  two  young 
men  issued  from  houses  as  different  in  aspect  as  were  their 
fortunes. 

Scarcely  had  the  sun  smitten  the  tops  of  the  hills,  when 
Ion,  fresh  from  the  home  bath,  his  perfumed  locks  cor- 
rectly curled  to  take  the  right  Alcibidian  fall  over  the  brow, 
swept  his  rich  purple  mantle  through  the  courts  of  his 
town  house.  He  had  chosen  his  dwelling  outside  the  walls. 
A  countryman's  son,  Ion  had  brought  to  crowded  Athens 
the  love  of  wide  skies  and  free  winds;  his  house  stood  close 
to  the  Lyceum. 

Before  leaving  the  peristyle,  Ion  gave  the  freedom  of  the 
day  to  every  slave  within  the  courts.  With  a  shout,  the 
little  army  scampered  to  their  quarters.  Gleeful,  tuneful 
snatches  of  song  rose  up ;  and  the  sonorous  Greek  voices  fol- 
lowed Ion  down  the  street,  as  he  made  his  way  to  the  road 
leading  to  the  city. 

Ion  smiled,  as  he  murmured,  softly,  "  To  slave  as  to 
freedman,  to  young  and  old,  to  rich  and  poor  alike,  how 
subtly  the  kind  god  works!  The  soul  seems  lightened  of 
every  sorrow !  " 

As  Ion  passed  into  the  ever-brightening  streets,  he  himself 
felt  the  stirrings  of  the  miracle-worker.  Dionysus,  the  dear 
god,  was  pouring  forth  his  joy-giving  spirit.  Ion  walked 
as  a  man  goes  forth  to  meet  a  happy  destiny;  some  won- 
derful thing  was  surely  to  happen  to  him,  else  never  would 
he  feel  such  an  unwarrantable  elation. 

42 


THE  FEAST  OF  DIONYSUS  43 

Who  would  be  the  first  to  pull  at  his  mantle?  Would 
it  be  Timoleon? 

Timoleon,  only  a  few  moments  before,  had  left  his  mean, 
small  house,  one  that  had  two  entrances,  since  it  was  both 
a  shop  and  a  dwelling,  and  was  already  making  his  way 
through  the  packed  streets  of  the  lower  end  of  the  Agora. 
Though  he  had  no  such  substantial  reasons  as  had  Ion  for 
finding  life  a  banquet,  and  Fortune  a  smiling  goddess,  still 
even  Timoleon  felt  the  sweet  influences  of  the  festival  sea- 
son. Like  other  advanced  thinkers,  Timoleon  laughed,  in 
secret,  at  the  Dionysus  myth, —  and  aloud  when  it  was 
safe.  For  Timoleon 's  fortunes,  since  his  misfortunes  had 
come  to  him  —  since  his  father's  ostracism  —  had  largely 
depended  on  the  clever  wits  that  lay  beneath  his  own  dark 
locks. 

In  spite  of  his  more  or  less  empty  purse,  little  by  little 
Timoleon  felt  the  rising  pulse  of  excitement.  The  god  was 
beginning  to  evoke  delightful  sensations  even  in  those  who 
disowned  him. 

At  a  sudden  turn  in  the  narrow  street,  Timoleon  all  but 
ran  into  Ion's  arms. 

With  a  shout  of  laughter,  the  two  young  men,  with  the 
glee  of  boys,  did,  indeed,  open  their  arms,  in  reality.  They 
gave  each  other  mockingly,  the  embrace  that  the  pressure 
of  the  crowd  had  precipitated. 

"  Ah-h  dear  Ion  —  Well  met !  And  how  fine  we  are ! 
A  fair  soul  in  a  fair  raiment !  "  cried  Timoleon,  admiringly, 
and,  for  a  wonder,  without  envy. 

Ion  threw  back  his  garlanded  head.  Hyacinths  and  lilies 
framed  a  face  radiant  with  life,  and  beautiful  with  fire- 
touched  enthusiasm. 

This,  his  first  great  festival  since  his  return,  had  swept 
every  chord  of  Ion's  responsive  nature.  The  music,  the 
crowds,  the  glistening  gods,  the  steaming  altars,  every  con- 


44  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

tributary  feature  of  the  festival  had  wrought  a  fierce  keen 
rapture. 

"Timoleon!  —  dear  man!  Come!  there  is  a  wonder 
abroad,  it  appears  —  a  new  beauty !  But  then,  on  such  a 
day  —  even  the  oldest,  seem  new  —  young  —  immortal ! 
This  is  indeed  a  true  Dionysia.  Never  before,  it  seems 
to  me — " 

"But  what  were  you  saying  —  a  new  beauty?"  inter- 
rupted Timoleon,  sending  his  eyes  restlessly  abroad. 

Ion  had  swept  his  friend's  shoulder  with  his  arm.  The 
rich  purples  of  Ion's  himation  contrasted  well  with  Timo- 
leon's  saffron  garments.  Their  faces  were  almost  on  a 
level.  The  two  wreathed  heads  were  now  bent,  now 
twisted,  were  now  following  each  fresh,  fair  face.  Yet  to 
hear  of  a  fairer  one  stirred  the  young  men's  pulses.  "  Yes, 
they  say  she  is  a  wonder  —  Glaucus  —  but  look !  —  but  here 
—  of  all  men  whose  mantle  should  be  perfectly  draped, 
comes  Glaucus  himself  —  and  look  at  him !  " 

A  flat-nosed,  elaborately  dressed  youth  emerged,  with  a 
leap  and  a  bound,  from  out  a  thick  crowd.  He  was  dashed, 
with  a  certain  violence,  against  the  two  young  men's  breasts. 

Gasping,  spluttering,  almost  sobbing,  Glaucus  told  his 
friends  what  had  befallen  him. 

A  group  of  shepherds,  it  appeared,  had  been  dancing  in 
the  very  middle  of  the  street.  Catching  sight  of  Glaucus' 
sumptuously  clad  figure,  they  had  instantly  surrounded  him. 
His  trailing  himation,  his  heavily  wreathed  and  perfumed 
locks,  his  jewelled  and  garlanded  shoulders,  his  tall  cane,  and 
his  Molossian  hound  had  touched  the  humour-loving  gayety 
of  these  Attic  hill-folk. 

Round  and  round  raging  Glaucus  the  merry  band  had 
swept.  His  barking  dog,  Glaucus'  mad,  frantic  gestures, 
his  nimble  but  ineffectual  efforts  to  escape  through  the  satyr- 


THE  FEAST  OF  DIONYSUS  45 

like  forms  of  his  tormentors,  had  made  the  rude  fun  flame 
into  grotesque  hilarity. 

Still  spluttering,  with  wreath  and  garland  awry,  his  man- 
tle twisted  and  covered  with  dirt,  Glaucus  entertained  his 
friends  with  his  disgusting  adventure. 

Timoleon  laughed  his  fill;  he  actually  helped  Glaucus  to 
make  himself  beautiful.  Ion  had  already  re-adjusted  the 
fallen  garlands,  as  Timoleon  busied  himself  with  the  jewelled 
clasps  confining  the  inner  tunic. 

"  Well  —  well  —  of  all  things,  that  our  Glaucus  should 
be  thus  roughly  handled,"  cried  Timoleon,  in  mocking  glee. 

"  You  may  well  say  so  —  I  might  as  well  have  been  a 
ball  or  a  puppet,"  almost  sobbed  Glaucus,  as  intently  en- 
gaged over  his  disordered  toilet  as  though  he  had  been  a 
woman. 

"  Oh  well  —  the  world  is  always  jealous  of  novelties  in 
dress,"  soothingly  cried  Ion,  his  eyes  meeting  Timoleon's 
in  a  riot  of  mirth.  "  But  come  —  you  look  now  as  fresh  as 
a  maid  from  her  bath  —  That's  right,  keep  between  us  — 
Timoleon  and  I  will  play  Scyths  to  your  comeliness  —  but 
for  heaven's  sake  forget  your  late  annoyances  —  my  Glau- 
cus, and  tell  us  of  the  new  beauty  you  have  discovered  — " 

Glaucus,  quieted,  at  ease  once  more,  and  happy  in  being 
between  his  two  friends,  proceeded  to  narrate  the  adventure 
of  the  morning. 

At  dusk,  it  appeared,  he  had  been  coming  up  from  Phale- 
rum  in  his  town  cart.  He  had  passed  the  previous  night 
at  the  port,  in  gay  company.  Among  the  thousands  of 
vehicles  and  foot-passengers  was  a  certain  chariot  — "  drawn 
by  bays  singularly  the  match  of  yours  —  my  Ion " — 
and  on  the  back  seat,  had  sat,  erect,  with  veil  swept  aside, 
a  creature  so  utterly  lovely,  that  he,  Glaucus,  had  actually 
let  his  reins  fall.  Never  had  he  seen  her  like.  She  had 


46  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

violet  blue  eyes  —  and  hair  —  and  a  skin  —  and  such  shoul- 
ders—" 

"  Who  pray  was  with  her?  "  cried  Ion,  quivering.  It  ex- 
cited him  to  hear  of  such  beauty. 

"  That  is  of  all  things  the  most  amazing  —  Beside  an 
elderly  man  on  the  front,  who  —  of  all  men  —  do  you  sup- 
pose sat  beside  her  —  my  Ion  —  but  your  father  —  my 
boy!" 

"My  father!"  Ion  started  —  stared.  His  breath  was 
fairly  taken  from  him.  He  stopped  —  letting  the  crowd 
circle  about  him.  He  was  whirled  he  knew  not  where.  He 
had  to  run  a  few  onward  paces  to  catch  Glaucus'  answer. 

"  Yes  —  he  saluted  me  —  but  rather  as  though  he  re- 
gretted having  seen  me !  " 

"  Of  all  wonders !  And  to  keep  me  in  ignorance  of  all 
this  —  and  to  tell  me  he  would  not  be  in  town  until  the 
hour  of  my  banquet — " 

Ion's  indignation  was  so  warm  his  friends  burst  into  de- 
lighted laughter.  Timoleon  clutched  Ion's  arm  the  tighter. 
"  There  is  one  thing  —  and  only  one  thing  to  be  done  — 
We  must  find  this  new  wonder  —  and  your  father,  and 
make  him  introduce  us — " 

This  purpose  gave  to  the  young  men  an  added  stimulus. 
They  breasted  the  crowd  as  though  plunging  into  a  sea. 
Like  the  waves  of  the  sea,  the  festival  gayety  closed  in  and 
about  them.  At  a  certain  street  corner  their  passage  was 
blocked  by  a  long  line  of  Bacchantes,  on  their  way  to  take 
their  places  in  the  procession.  They  went  their  way  soberly 
enough  now.  They  were  walking  as  sedately  as  other 
women  walked;  their  time  of  ecstasy  was  not  yet  come. 
The  long  hours  of  the  day  were  between  them  and  the  rap- 
ture-madness, when,  with  loosened  locks,  ungirdled  draperies, 
and  transport-driven  frenzy,  they  would  make  of  the  night 
one  long  mysterious  act  of  worship. 


THE  FEAST  OF  DIONYSUS  47 

The  white-robed  line,  whose  moving  grace  was  like  an 
animated  frieze,  took  many  minutes  to  pass. 

All  the  city  now  rang  with  music.  From  street  corners, 
from  gardens,  from  porticoes,  from  all  open  places,  glad, 
exultant  voices,  singing,  shouting,  soared  upward.  Cele- 
brants were  gathered  thick  about  smoking  altars.  The 
throbbing  notes  of  sonorous-tongued  trumpets  made  the  air 
quiver  with  penetrating  vibrations.  The  more  delicate  notes 
of  harp,  of  zithers,  of  single  and  double  flutes,  pierced  the 
ear  like  a  continuous  whirring  of  insect's  wings  and  of  bird- 
notes. 

Glistening,  glittering,  everywhere  the  statues  of  the  gods 
rose  up.  The  marble  brows  and  shoulders,  as  were  living 
heads  and  breasts,  were  thick  with  garlands.  No  god  but 
what  was  niched  in  roses; — scarcely  a  man  or  woman 
moved  that  did  not  leave  behind  the  trail  of  perfume. 
Even  the  usual  foetid  odors  that  rose  up  from  the  streets, 
were  deadened.  For,  added  to  the  scent  of  flowers,  an 
animating  sea  wind  now  brought  a  touch  of  salt  to  the  lips. 
There  was  a  freshening  coolness  abroad  that  made  the  mere 
act  of  breathing  a  delight. 

Athletes,  with  coarse,  scarred  faces,  but  with  forms  like 
gods,  everywhere  decked  the  streets  like  living  statues.  And 
in  and  out,  threading  the  crowd  like  airy  butterflies,  there 
passed  and  repassed,  then  glided  hither  and  thither,  the 
supple  shapes  of  hundreds  of  hetaerae. 

The  glances  of  these  ladies  were  obviously  more  dazzling 
to  rude  shepherd's  eyes,  than  were  the  sun  rays  on  bare 
hills,  at  high  noon.  Fishermen  from  the  Piraeus,  come  in 
gala  dress  to  take  a  mariner's  look  around,  stood,  gaping, 
blocking  the  way.  Some  soldiers  in  their  holiday  chlamys, 
which  they  wore  with  extra  jauntiness,  were  crowding  about 
the  half-post,  half  statue  of  the  household  Hermae.  Gaily 
they  jeered  at  the  lazy  trademen  whose  industry,  in  a  trim- 


48          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

ming  of  their  god,  had,  apparently,  only  been  born  after 
breakfast.  Groups  of  fashionable  young  men  stood  about, 
with  their  hands  on  their  hips,  and  an  arm  flung  about  a 
comrade's  neck,  affecting  the  latest  fashion  in  disdain. 

"Look!"  cried  Glaucus,  at  a  sudden  turn  in  the  street, 
where  the  poorer  slaves  and  country  folk  were  already  clos- 
ing in  about  the  wine  bowls, —  huge  bowls  that  were  set  at 
the  street  corners,  for  free  worship  of  the  god  — "  By  the 
god  Pan !  but  there  are  my  tormentors !  " 

A  swarm  of  half-drunken,  vulgarly-costumed  hill-folk 
made  a  sudden  rush  for  the  three  young  men. 

Pan's  goat-like  features  leaped  and  pranced  before  Ion 
and  the  two  annoyed  young  noblemen.  Bacchus,  with  dis- 
torted, bloated  face,  crowned  with  grape-vines,  green  and 
lustrous,  blew  wine-drugged  breaths,  with  laughing  buffoon- 
ery, into  their  faces.  Coarse-voiced  Bacchantees  —  no 
priestesses  these  —  but  rustic  imitators,  trailed  dust-stained 
robes  and  uncombed  locks,  swirling  in  mid-air  their  rudely- 
trimmed  thyrsi,  as  Pan  squealed  through  his  reed,  and  Bac- 
chus hiccoughed  a  hymn  to  Dionysus. 

When  the  two  young  men  were  released  from  the  noisy 
revellers,  Ion  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 


Further  up  the  street,  Nirias  and  his  party,  who  had 
come  up  from  Phalerum,  had  been  forced  to  flatten  them- 
selves against  a  house  front. 

A  noisy  shouting  had  filled  the  air.  The  crowd  of 
merrymakers,  before,  about,  around  them  —  mostly  peasants, 
clad  in  goats'  skins  —  was  suddenly  swarming  down  upon 
the  party.  The  narrowness  of  the  passage  in  this  bend  of 
the  street  increased  the  din  and  shouting.  The  smell  of 
garlic-tainted  breaths  befouled  the  air. 

Maia  found  herself  suddenly  alone,   unaccountably   flat- 


THE  FEAST  OF  DIONYSUS  49 

tened  against  the  sides  of  the  nearer  house  walls.  The  blue 
of  the  sky  was  obscured.  A  cloud  of  faces,  bestial  and  in- 
flamed, surrounded  her.  One,  with  a  satyr's  grin  was  sud- 
denly, terrifyingly  close.  Maia  shuddered  —  she  drew  her 
draperies  tight  about  her  —  she  called  as  loud  as  her  fear, 
that  was  shaking  her  like  an  aspen,  would  let  her,  "  Manes! 
Mago!  quick!  help  me!  save  me!  or  I  know  not  what 
may  " —  then  her  breath  was  taken  from  her.  She  could 
only  squeeze  herself  tight  against  the  wall.  What  could 
it  be  that  was  so  hot,  so  foul, —  what  was  the  drunken  voice 
hiccoughing? 

"  One  kiss  —  my  beauty  —  Venus  —  hie !  owes  me  —  hie 
that — "  As  out  of  a  nightmare,  Maia  heard  the  voice 
shout. 

Suddenly  with  a  rush  and  smooth  as  wind,  a  beautiful 
stranger  dashed  into  the  midst  of  the  peasant  crowd. 

To  catch  the  peasant  about  the  waist,  and  then  to  lift 
the  writhing  body  aloft,  holding  him  thus  for  a  second, 
that  Ion  might  toss  him  gaily  in  the  air,  as  though  he  were 
a  ball, —  and,  after  he  had  had  his  sport,  to  deposit  the 
limp,  inert  lump  in  the  very  middle  of  the  street  —  all  this 
had  taken  but  the  space  of  a  minute.  The  next,  slightly 
puffing,  Ion  had  called  to  his  slaves  to  dust  his  sandals. 

The  peasant  now  lay  in  a  heap.  He  was  dazedly  rub- 
bing his  head.  His  companions  were  shouting  at  him  their 
derisive  laughter,  and  Ion  heard  the  loud  buzz  of  applaud- 
ing voices  about  his  ears. 

But  the  beautiful  being,  whose  loveliness  could  not  be 
hidden  even  by  the  hastily  gathered  folds  of  her  veil,  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen. 

lori  questioned  the  group  of  gentlemen  who  had  ap- 
plauded his  athletic  feat,  as  to  who  the  beauty  might  be,  and 
by  whom  she  was  accompanied  —  but  no  one  could  tell  him. 
As  soon  as  Ion  had  come  to  the  lady's  rescue,  a  Persian,  a 


50 

slave  apparently,  had  rushed  to  her  side,  and  had  swept  her 
away. 

Though  Ion  made  an  exhaustive  search  of  the  groups  im- 
mediately about  him,  the  lovely  stranger  was,  indeed,  no- 
where to  be  found.  Could  she,  by  any  lucky  chance,  be 
the  new  beauty  ?  Ion  pondered, —  the  rare  grace  of  the 
affrighted  gestures,  the  plastic  suppleness  of  the  writhing 
form  within  the  violet  draperies,  the  gold,  snows,  and  car- 
nations shining  within  the  veil, —  surely  this  was  she!  No 
lovelier  creature  had  Ion  seen  in  Athens  since  his  return. 

The  Pirsean  now  hurried  onward;  at  least  he  would  be 
certain  to  run  across  Timoleon  and  Glaucus.  With  three 
such  pairs  of  eyes,  the  wonder  would  surely  be  found. 


Maia,  in  her  turn,  had  looked  for  her  preserver  diligently. 
When  Mago  had  swept  to  her  side,  and  had  hurried  her  to 
Nirias,  whose  state,  at  finding  Maia  gone,  was  "  pitiable  to 
see,"  Mago  said,  Maia  had  turned  upon  the  unoffending 
slave  with  swift,  uncontrollable  anger. 

"And  must  I  never  have  a  moment  of  freedom — ? 
Must  I  forever  remember  who  pretended  to  free  me,  that 
he  might  thus  keep  me  the  more  securely  bound  ?  "  was 
Maia's  heated,  impassioned  outburst. 

When  Nirias  grasped  her  mantle,  with  frantic  delight  at 
finding  his  adored  one  apparently  unharmed,  Maia's  temper 
had  not  cooled.  The  stinging  lash  of  her  scorn  so  stung 
poor  Nirias  that  he  shrank  backwards  —  was  well  content 
to  walk  with  Manes,  and  let  Maia  have,  at  least,  some 
semblance  of  freedom. 

On  such  a  day,  however,  the  most  righteous  indignation 
must  give  way  to  the  gay  holiday  spirit.  There  was  con- 
tagion in  the  very  air,  in  the  glad  songs,  in  the  perfumes,  in 


THE  FEAST  OF  DIONYSUS  51 

the  festal  throngs,  and  Maia  had  not  gone  a  dozen  steps  be- 
fore the  festival  rapture  had  re-captured  her. 

Maia,  indeed,  felt  herself  to  be  walking  on  air.  Since 
the  first  moment  of  her  landing,  since  the  first  outlook 
of  the  distant  temple-crowned  Acropolis,  and  her  glimpse 
of  the  divine  little  city  carrying  up  from  the  rich  plain 
the  long  lines  of  glistening  altars,  statues,  and  stately  tem- 
ples to  the  lofty  citadel,  like  a  sumptuously  clad  priestess 
mounting  temple  steps  to  make  magnificent  offering,  Maia 
had  felt  the  rocking  ecstasy  of  triumphant  delight. 

Triumphant!  For  she  knew,  and  for  a  certainty,  she  had 
come  into  her  own  city! 

No  object,  however  novel,  seemed  strange;  the  aspect  of 
streets  or  houses, —  the  very  faces  carved  into  the  walls  and 
the  benign  Hermae  —  how  familiar !  how  dear ! 

Maia  had  entered  Athens  as  might  one  of  the  great  Greek 
heroines.  Thus  would  Electra  have  felt,  on  coming  to 
Mycenae. 

Maia's  quick  Greek  pulses  were,  therefore,  in  perfect  tune 
with  the  Dionysiac  festival.  Surely  hundreds  of  times  she 
had  been  thus  abroad,  had  been  hustled  thus,  had  seen  every 
altar  dressed  like  a  bride,  and  had  breathed  the  clear,  brisk 
Athenian  air  that  clouds  of  incense  could  not  clog! 

To  the  wondering  looks  that  were  showered  on  Maia,  as 
she  moved,  rapt,  elate,  with  veil  swept  aside,  that  she  might 
the  better  see  all  —  to  the  admiring  comments  that  followed 
her  like  a  chorus,  Maia  was  wholly  indifferent.  If  indeed 
she  heard  the  murmur  of  delight  her  appearnce  aroused,  she 
heeded  it  not. 

On  and  on  she  walked,  as  one  come  to  take  possession. 

Now  her  beauty  loving  eyes  were  wide  with  delight  — 
some  new  master-piece,  in  the  street  of  the  Tripods,  where 
one  moved  between  a  never-ending  aisle  of  master-pieces  — 
caught  her  gaze,  holding  it  spellbound ;  what  a  multitude 


52  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

of  offerings !  how  thick  were  crowded  shrines,  tripods,  sculp- 
tured pedestals  on  which  rested  wonderful  lyres  with  golden 
strings,  or  the  jewelled  and  tinted  figures  of  an  Apollo! 

Wherever  one  looked,  was  to  sip  intoxication.  Greek  en- 
ergy spoke  through  the  wide-glancing,  excitable  Greek  eyes, 
in  eloquent,  impassioned  gesture,  and  in  melodious  moving 
and  moved  speech.  Merely  to  be  among  Athenians,  on  such 
a  day,  was  to  feel  one's  self  above  all  other  mortals. 

How  different  to  the  heavy,  mercantile,  features  of  a 
Corinthian  gathering! 

Maia  had  no  sooner  made  this  unflattering  reflection, 
than  her  observant  eyes  were  caught  by  a  group  of  stately 
Athenians  who  were  making  difficult  headway  through  the 
thick  masses  of  peasants,  soldiers,  shepherds,  athletes,  and 
strangers  that  packed  the  entrance  to  the  more  open  spaces 
of  the  precinct  of  the  theatre. 

Ahead  of  the  party  walked  a  number  of  slaves.  These 
were  making  heroic  efforts  to  clear  a  passage  for  their  mas- 
ters. 

Behind  the  slaves  came  the  master  —  a  dignified  aristo- 
crat "  who  passes  his  nights  at  banquets,  and  his  days  in  dis- 
puting with  the  philosophers  "  Maia  thought,  as  she  sur- 
veyed the  clear-cut  features,  with  their  tell-tale  lines  of 
fatigue  and  the  crimson  touch  of  Bacchus. 

The  ladies  directly  behind  the  stately  banqueter  rivetted 
Maia's  gaze.  Shrouded  in  their  veils  though  they  were,  the 
three  ladies  betrayed  their  high  station,  by  every  motion  and 
gesture.  They  kept  their  eyes  upon  the  ground ;  their  slaves 
further  hid  them  from  view  by  holding  close  the  fringed 
parasols,  and  two,  at  least,  of  the  ladies  walked  with  un- 
steady feet,  as  tread  those  who  rarely  go  abroad. 

"  The  other  —  she  with  the  marvellous  transparencies  — 
surely  she  must  be  a  foreigner  —  no  lady,  Athenian  born, 


THE  FEAST  OF  DIONYSUS  53 

would  go  abroad  in  such  raiment  —  even  on  a  festival 
day!" 

So  great,  indeed,  had  been  Maia's  interest  in  the  group 
that,  forgetful  of  her  own  appearance,  she  had  slowed  her 
step,  and  her  face  was  fully  revealed.  Her  veil  had  fallen, 
unheeded,  upon  her  arm. 

"  By  the  fair  face  of  Venus,  but  what  a  lovely  creature!  " 
Maia  started  —  and  stood  at  her  tallest.  The  eyes  of  the 
advancing  party  were,  she  found,  fixed  full  upon  her. 

The  master  stared,  with  wonder-struck  eyes  as  he  ut- 
tered his  ejaculation.  And  the  three  ladies  had  stopped; 
even  through  their  veils  Maia  felt  the  curious,  searching 
feminine  gaze  concentrated  upon  every  feature,  every  detail 
of  her  form  and  costume. 

Maia  returned  the  fixed  stare.  She  swept  the  party  with 
deep,  soulful  glance.  The  elderly  aristocrat,  he  who  had 
cried  aloud,  at  first  sight  of  her,  did  not  interest  her.  But  on 
the  more  matronly  figure,  she  who  held  herself  with  a  pride 
and  dignity  that  proclaimed  a  great  race,  and  on  the  lovely 
virginal  form  of  her  who  was  the  daughter  of  the  house 
—  whose  corn  locks  shone  through  her  shimmering  veil  — 
on  these  two  Maia  looked  with  all  soul  in  her  eyes. 

What  if  such  as  these  great  ladies  should  be  found  to  be 
her  kindred  ?  Something  in  the  slender  grace  of  that  lovely 
maiden  reminded  Maia  of  her  own  youth  —  before  she  was 
fully  born  —  before  she  became  a  woman.  And  at  the 
sight  of  that  protected  innocence  —  of  the  child  whose  vir- 
ginal charms  were  guarded  as  was  the  shrine  of  Pallas 
Athena,  a  strange,  inexplicable  sense  of  injury  possessed 
Maia's  soul.  She  could  have  cried  aloud  — "  You  have 
wronged  me!  —  wronged  me!  "  And  the  next  instant,  she 
had  turned  away,  smiling  at  her  absurd  fancies,  at  her  over- 
wrought state. 


54  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Maia  had  but  just  rejoined  Nirias,  when  a  cry  rent  the 
air. 

"  O  Critias!  Come!  come!  Oh-h  I  shall  die  if  I  do  not 
catch  her  —  do  not  see  her  again !  Did  you  not  see  for 
yourself  ?  'Twas  Myrto's  very  image !  My  God  —  I  feel 
the  earth  giving  way !  " 

Succeeding  the  shrieks,  Maia  heard  a  confused  medley  of 
voices  that  drowned  the  lady's  loud  wail. 

What  could  the  cries  mean  ?  Had  the  mother  —  that 
matronly  dame  seen  in  her  —  Maia  —  a  fancied  resemblance 
to  some  beloved  one?  Had  she  too,  felt  the  strange,  myste- 
rious drawing  —  the  cord  of  a  common  subtle  instinct  of 
attraction  ? 

For  long  moments,  Maia  walked  as  one  in  a  dream.  She 
felt  herself  shaken,  to  the  very  core  of  her  being.  She 
who  had  so  yearned  to  find  kindred,  who,  since  first  stepping 
foot  on  Attican  soil,  had  asked  of  every  fresh  face  the  great 
question  —  of  every  veiled  face,  in  mercy  to  lift  its  covering, 
had  the  answer  to  her  longing  —  to  her  prayers  —  been 
sent  her? 

But  look,  search  the  crowd  as  she  might,  stay  her  steps, 
linger  to  make  a  pretence  of  wishing  to  delight  still  further 
in  the  gayety,  the  excitement  centered  in  the  famous  street, 
Maia  could  catch  no  glimpse  of  the  Critias  group. 

Maia  was  hurried  on.  Nirias  was  feeling  the  effects  of 
the  long  walk,  the  crowd  and  the  noise  would  "  soon  finish 
him,"  he  said  —  they  must  reach  the  theatre  as  quickly  as 
possible. 

Maia  now  followed,  obediently.  A  fresh  hope  had 
bloomed.  Perhaps  at  the  theatre,  she  might  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  ladies.  The  slaves,  she  recollected,  had  carried 
cushions. 


Chapter  VII 
MAIA'S  TRIUMPH 

THE  sun  was  near  to  Its  setting  as  the  last  notes  of  the 
chorus  swept  up  from  the  orchestra  to  the  over-arching 
skies.  Those  who  had  been  in  their  seats  since  daybreak, 
now  rose,  stretching  aching  limbs.  Yet  Athens  stood,  long 
after  the  play  was  ended,  to  clap  frenzied  hands,  and  to 
shout  itself  hoarse. 

The  new  actor  from  ^Egina,  a  handsome  youth,  in  his 
portrayal  of  Antigone,  had  captured  the  critical,  emotional 
audience. 

Tears  still  bathed  Maia's  face ;  and  those  of  her  neighbours 
were  also  bedewed.  Antigone's  heroic  accents,  her  sublime 
utterances  still  rang  upon  the  air. 

As  Maia  moved  downward,  one  with  the  crowd  flowing 
over  the  stone  seats,  the  chorus  groups  were  still  moving, 
swaying,  dancing,  before  her  eyes;  their  mounting  odes  were 
clashing,  melodiously,  above  the  rustling  crowds.  Bril- 
liant purples,  crimsons,  and  golds  were  also  still  dazzling 
her  eyes. 

Maia  continued  to  move  langourously;  she  let  her  scarf 
and  mantle  trail.  Her  throbbing  pulses  made  this  breaking 
up  of  the  vast  audience  —  as  moving  a  part  almost  as  any 
of  the  long  drama  of  the  day  —  at  once  intensely  real  and 
singularly  remote. 

As  she  made  one  of  the  thick  groups  of  hetaerae,  who, 
like  herself,  had  been  seated  in  the  spaces  set  apart  for 
women  —  in  the  upper  tiers  of  seats,  just  beneath  the 
colonnade  —  their  gay  childish  laughter,  the  soulless  look 

55 


56  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

of  most  of  these  her  sisters  moved  her  to  envy.  Why  could 
she  not  take  life  as  serenely,  as  joyously  as  they?  Why 
must  she  be  longing  for  worlds  unattainable?  Why  must 
she  seek  kindred  —  dull  family  relations,  doubtless,  who 
would  bore  one's  life  out?  Why,  in  a  word,  could  she 
not  be  content  with  Nirias,  her  great  house  on  Corinth's 
rising  slopes,  her  slaves,  and  her  life  of  luxury? 

Antigone's  thrilling  accents  soared  upwards.  Above  the 
noisy  chattering  groups  she  heard  the  compelling  voice  of 
duty,  of  family,  of  something  afar  —  as  of  long  slow  growth, 

—  call  imperiously  to  her  sentient  soul. 

Then,  she  had  dropped  to  earth.  She  was  only  one  among 
her  sisters.  She  was  fluttering  downwards,  one  of  the 
flight  of  gaudily  plumaged  birds,  whose  yellows,  blues  and 
lilacs  dotted,  with  bright  colours,  the  prevailing  whites  of 
the  vast  crowd.  Slaves  were  hastily  gathering  together 
cushions  and  bags,  bottles  of  scent  and  fans.  Youthful, 
joyously  smiling  faces  rose  out  of  the  ever-moving  audience 
to  shout  loving  salutations  to  the  gay  votaries  of  pleasure, 
about  her.  These  greetings  made  Maia  feel  still  more 
separate  —  as  remote  as  was  mighty  Acro-Corinthus  from 
the  Acropolis. 

In  the  midst  of  a  circle  of  priests  and  priestesses  Maia 
foun'd  Manes.  He  was  uttering,  as  usual,  his  critical  com- 
ments; as  usual  he  had  no  thought  of  whom  they  might 
wound.  She  heard  him  cry  out: — 

"  Ah  —  I  dare  say  —  it  is  part  of  Alcibiades'  policy  of 
magnificence  to  costume  a  chorus  so  as  to  astonish  the  people 

—  but   I   tell  you,   art  is  as  sensitive  as   a  woman  —  you 
over-dress   her  —  and    she    loses   her   purity   of    line  —  her 
divine  simplicity.     Now  in  Corinth  — " 

Maia  noted  the  amused  smiles  circling  the  lips  of  Manes' 
listeners.  She  thought  it  time  to  break  up  the  talk.  She 
moved  towards  Manes;  she  pressed  her  way  between  the 


MAIA'S  TRIUMPH  57 

venerable  priests  whose  whitening  locks  were  bound  about 
with  floating  tenia.  Three  beautiful  virgins  wearing  high- 
girdled  chitons,  whose  flowing  tresses  were  rose-garlanded, 
were  standing  near. 

"  Where  is  Nirias?  And  ought  we  not  to  be  seeking  the 
boat?"  Maia  said,  as  she  finally  reached  Manes. 

She  wondered  at  Athenian  courtesy ; —  for  the  circle  about 
Manes  widened  —  gave  her  place.  There  was  a  murmur- 
ous buzz  about  her  ears.  She  felt  rather  than  saw,  the 
staring  of  many  eyes. 

But  her  own  eyes  had  caught  sight  of  the  graceful 
sculptures  traced  on  the  backs  of  the  famous  priests'  chairs. 
She  was  following  the  dance-motion  of  the  agile  god. 

The  murmur  did  not  wholly  die  away;  it  still  pursued 
as  she  and  Manes  moved  to  that  part  of  the  outer  precinct 
where  Nirias  was  making  his  farewells  to  Crates. 

As  she  stood  waiting,  Maia's  eyes  took  in  the  great 
scene.  The  buzzing  voices  still  about  her  were  only  a 
part,  she  thought,  of  the  universal  buzz  and  bustle  of  moving 
thousands. 

The  great  theatre  was  now  all  but  empty.  Its  semi- 
circular grace  sloped  up  the  great  rock.  The  statues  be- 
neath the  upper  colonnade  were  saffron-tinted.  They  car- 
ried the  eye  aloft  to  the  rugged,  unhewn  eastern  end  of 
the  Acropolis.  But  the  rough  surfaces  were  being  turned 
to  carmine  tints.  And  the  line  of  the  columns  of  the 
Parthenon,  seen  aslant,  was  aglow  with  the  golden  sunset 
hues.  Temples,  the  gods  and  goddesses  in  their  shadowed 
pediment,  and  the  labyrinth  of  altars,  temples,  and  statues 
in  the  upper  precinct  of  /Esculapius,  were  swimming  in 
light.  The  magical  moment  of  its  transfiguration  was 
come  to  Athens. 

Under  the  glow  that  pulsed  to  the  very  zenith,  Maia 
moved  onward  —  away  —  as  in  a  trance. 


58          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

The  road  to  Phalerum  — the  way  to  their  boat  — ran 
between  tall  walls  and  watch  towers.  But  country  smells 
and  scents  came  over  the  walls.  Out  of  the  stillness,  and 
the  busy  tumult  of  her  thoughts,  the  clear  harmonies  of  the 
chorus-singing  of  Sophocles'  famous  ode  rang  out.  Amid 
the  maze  of  impressions,  emotions  and  incidents  of  this  day 
of  days  it  was  strange  —  and  yet  sweet  —  to  have  the  famous 
hymn  ringing  in  her  ears.  She  could  hear  the  chorus  chant- 
ing the  phrases.  How  did  the  strain  go?  Was  that  the 

key? 

Maia  hummed  the  hymn.     The  first  lines  of  the  first 

strophe  had  barely  left  her  lips : — 

"Mighty  Power,  all  powers  above, 
Great  unconquerable  love. 

when  a  voice  close  behind  startled  her.  The  melody  died 
upon  her  lip.  The  voice  was  pleading  — 

"  O  gracious  lady  —  pray  sing  the  ode  —  give  it  to  us 
as  it  should  be  sung !  " 

As  Maia  turned,  she  looked  her  fright  —  her  dazed 
amazement.  For  'twas  not  one — 'twas  hundreds  of  ad- 
miring eyes  and  speaking  lips  that  met  her  gaze. 

This  following  crowd  had  gathered  silently,  mysteriously. 
Maia  had  not  heard  their  noiseless  stepping.  She  had 
walked  on  and  on,  her  absorbed  reflections  had  made  her 
oblivious  of  all  else  save  the  tumult  of  feeling  within. 

The  thick  press  of  faces  now  before  her,  she  noted,  was 
mostly  male.  Here  and  there,  behind  those  close  in  front, 
a  woman's  high-piled  tresses  were  seen  darting  in  among 
the  masculine  bared  heads.  The  crowd  was  most  respect- 
fully still.  What  were  all  these  eager-eyed  people  trying 
to  see?  Maia  turned  her  face  now  this  way,  now  that. 
There  was  nothing  remarkable  in  either  the  people  ahead 
or  — 


MAIA'S  TRIUMPH  59 

Then  Maia's  very  heart  stood  still.  Her  lips  seemed 
strangely  athirst.  A  sweet  delirium  mounted  upwards  —  it 
touched  her  brain  with  fire. 

For,  as  she  had  turned,  all  innocence,  at  each  fresh  view 
of  her  face,  the  sonorous  voices  about  her  chorussed 

"Ah-h!  For  love  of  the  graces  —  stay  —  thus  —  move 
not!" 

"  Corinthian  wonder  —  did  the  Cyprian  indeed  mother 
thee?" 

"Aphrodite's  very  self!  Look  at  the  colour  of  her  eyes, 
the  true  sea-greys!  " 

"And  the  fall  of  her  shoulders!  " 

"  The  arms  —  to  the  fraction  of  an  inch,  are  telling  us 
what  the  lovely  limbs  must  be!  " 

Maia  felt  herself  trembling,  paling,  blushing.  Where 
could  she  go  —  where  run?  What  insolence!  What  a 
want  of  manners! 

Yet  there  was  no  real  insolence.  The  voices  were,  in- 
deed, almost  reverential.  The  tones,  the  nature  of  the 
comments  were  those  beauty-lovers  might  emit,  when  circling 
about  a  new  statue. 

This  Athenian  tribute  to  her  beauty  was  sweet  to  Maia's 
ears.  She  found  herself  studying  to  walk  with  becoming 
dignity ;  she  swung  her  steps  into  rhythmic  grace  of  bearing. 

All  the  length  of  the  road  between  the  walls,  Maia, 
followed  by  her  train  of  admirers,  walked  on  and  on. 
Nirias  and  Manes  were  deep  in  talk.  The  slaves  had 
formed  themselves,  on  either  side  of  their  mistress,  into  an 
informal  escort. 

Maia  heard  whispered  conjectures  as  to  who  she  was,  or 
might  be;  Crates'  name  was  handed  about,  in  wonderment; 
she  could  hear  Nirias'  defects,  knowingly  voiced ;  and  for 
her  new  fresh  epithets  were  invented,  and  were  flung  forth 
as  hierophants  scatter  flowers  before  deity. 


6o          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Maia  sipped  the  nectar  of  this  praise.  An  ineffable  de- 
light filled  her.  Never  before  had  she  known  such  com- 
pleted joy.  To  have  every  turn  of  one's  body,  each  outline 
studied,  descanted  upon,  compared  to  immortal  masterpieces 
—  to  hear  such  phrases  ring  forth  as 

"  Alcamenes  —  where  is  Alcamenes?     See  her  he  must!  " 

"  Surely  some  one  can  be  sent.  She  will  not  be  gone  for 
a  good  shade  yet!  " 

Ah-h  —  what  was  the  finding  of  cruel-hearted  parents  to 
such  thrilling  salutations? 

Even  in  the  full  glow  of  her  pride,  Maia  smiled.  At  once 
comic  and  sad,  an  inner  voice  whispered 

"  Behold  —  ye  came  to  find  kindred,  and  have  found 
none.  Yet  Athens  claims  thee !  " 

At  this  thought  Maia  felt  herself  strongly  moved.  An 
irresistible  longing  seized  upon  her.  She  could  have  flung 
her  arms  about  the  nearest  close-bearded  figure.  She  could 
have  cried  forth  her  delight,  have  sobbed  out  her  pain.  If 
all  knew  her  story  —  would  not  her  friends  be  found  ? 

Almost  had  Maia  resolved  to  face  the  crowds,  to  speak, 
openly,  before  them  all,  telling  them  her  history,  when 
two  beautiful  dark  eyes  caught  her  glance,  held  it,  made 
it  quiver.  Her  bold  resolve  died  within  her. 

A  young  man,  and  one  very  beautiful,  had  pushed  him- 
self forward.  He  had  made  the  crowd  about  him  of 
festival  merry-makers  seem  suddenly  coarse  —  of  plebeian 
mould  and  feature.  Involuntarily,  as  though  in  homage  to 
one  of  superior  birth  and  breeding,  the  crowd  had  parted. 
Maia  and  the  Athenian  thus  eyed  each  other,  for  a  long  full 
moment,  with  none  between.  And  then  both  started, —  for 
each  had  recognized  in  the  other  the  rescued  and  the  rescuer 
of  the  shepherd's  outrage. 

"  They  are  of  one  beauty  —  they  should  mate,"  whispered 
low,  a  bearded,  goat-like  featured  man.  He  walked  close 


6i 

to  Maia.  His  slanting  eyes  travelled  now  to  one,  now 
to  the  other,  with  a  look  of  such  joy  one  might  have  thought 
he  had  fathered  Ion. 

Maia  had  heard  the  goat  like-looking  man's  whisper.  It 
brought  her  to  her  senses.  The  young  Athenian's  beauty, 
his  deep  thrilling  glance,  one  that  told  her  more  than  all  the 
loud  laudatory  chorussing,  had  for  an  instant  enchained  her 
steps.  She  had  felt  neither  power  to  breathe  nor  to  move. 
Then  she  was  as  suddenly  released..  The  man's  embarrassing 
outburst  had  broken  the  spell. 

From  the  deck  of  the  trireme,  a  few  minutes  later,  Maia 
felt  a  certain  high  courage  returning  to  her. 

The  crowd  now  was  circling  about  the  yellow  shore. 
In  another  instant  the  Keleustes  would  sound  his  chant, 
and  the  boat  would  be  off. 

Maia's  eyes  swept  the  figures  massed  upon  the  sands. 
She  had  wholly  forgotten  they  were  there,  solely  to  do 
her  homage.  She  was  only  intensely,  acutely  conscious  of 
finding  all  those  hundreds  of  faces  meaningless.  There  was 
only  one  perfect  brown  oval  —  one  shapely  form  —  one  — 

Maia's  travelling  eyes  now  caught  Ion's  powerful  gaze. 
For  a  long  instant  the  four  eyes  were  interlocked.  Then 
slowly,  the  two  beautiful  mouths  curved.  Each  was  smil- 
ing, across  the  widening  blues  —  into  the  other's  smile. 

But  the  Keleustes  had  sounded  his  notes.  The  oarsmen's 
blades,  as  one,  smote  the  waters.  Above  the  Keleustes' 
melodious  chant,  a  thunderous  cheer  rang  up  to  the  skies. 

"Evoe!     Evoe!" 

"  We  greet  thee !     We  salute  thee !  " 

"  Incomparable !  " 

"  Lovely  Corinthian  wonder  —  return!  Abide  with  us! 
We  will  worship  thee!  " 

As   the  cries  and   cheering   smote   Nirias'    dull   ears,   he 


62  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

blinked  his  eyes.  What  a  curious,  excitable  people  were 
these  Athenians !  They  could  not  see  a  fine  ship  moving  off 
without  voicing  their  admiration !  And  Nirias  settled  him- 
self among  his  comfortable  cushions  with  an  amused  grin. 
Better  than  foolish  Athenian  excitability  were  these  deep 
pillows,  after  a  day  that  might  well  have  killed  outright  a 
less  vigorous  frame! 

But  Manes  had  understood.  His  dancing  eyes,  aflame 
with  new  light,  met  Maia's.  He  seemed  to  be  watching, 
questioning,  conjecturing  —  his  piercing  gaze  said  as  clearly 
as  though  his  lips  spoke  — "  Well  —  here's  your  audience. 
And  now  what  do  you  intend  to  do  with  it?  " 

Maia  answered  the  challenge.  Her  lips  curled.  Mov- 
ing forward  to  the  very  centre  of  the  white  deck,  she  lifted 
her  mantle  and  her  eyes.  Smiling,  with  the  very  smile  she 
had  given  when  she  had  cried  out,  months  ago,  "  Well  — 
and  why  don't  you  beat  me,  now?  Where's  your  whip?" 
she  said,  with  triumphant  air, 

"I  think  I  remember  O  Manes!  some  of  your  excellent 
counsels  — '  If  you  wish  to  produce  a  great  effect  —  give 
your  audience  the  impression  of  complete  self-mastery  — 
and  —  above  all  else  —  take  time  to  do  all  things  well.' 
Back  please,  I  am  about  to  begin  — " 

Manes  took  the  place  assigned  him.  Then  for  very  joy, 
he  held  his  breath. 

Maia  had  taken  her  pose.  She  stood  alone  upon  the 
satiny  deck.  With  a  gesture  of  incomparable  grace  she 
flung  her  mantle  behind  her.  With  as  much  composure  as 
though  she  were  within  her  chamber,  she  began  slowly,  with 
infinite  art,  its  intricate  adjustment. 

On  the  shore  the  crowd  was  bending  forward  as  one 
man.  The  glow  in  ever  deepening  skies  lit  up  the  eager, 
moved  faces;  the  clear  light  italicized  each  movement  and 


MAIA'S  TRIUMPH  63 

gesture,  as  it  also  harmonized  tunics,  chitons,  and  trailing 
himatia  into  a  happy  blend  of  colour. 

Above  the  violet-blue  waters  Maia's  shape  rose  up  — 
the  one  figure  against  the  gauze  of  the  hills  of  Argolis. 

Against  that  gossamer  background",  as  she  well  knew, 
every  curve  and  outline  of  her  pliant  form  was  seen  to 
fullest  perfection.  Out  of  the  descending  folds  of  her 
finely  pleated  chiton,  her  bared  throat,  shoulders,  arms 
and  face  showed  their  snows  and  roses  as  might  her  proto- 
type, when  rising  from  the  Cyprian  foam. 

For  a  long  distance,  with  arms  outstretched,  she  held  her 
filmy  mantle  to  its  fullest  breadth.  Thus  held,  the  firm- 
ness of  her  round  breasts,  the  droop  of  the  line  from  slop- 
ing shoulder  to  the  curving  hips,  was  lost  in  the  folds  that 
hung  about  thighs  and  knees. 

Suddenly,  swiftly,  with  dexterous  fling,  the  lilac  gauze 
was  swung  aloft,  to  crown  the  golden  tresses.  Its  lower 
ends  were  caught,  were  quickly  wound  about  the  lovely 
shoulders,  were  swept  tight  as  an  enveloping  sheath  about 
arms  and  hips.  As  a  shard  clasps  its  flower,  the  mantle  en- 
wreathed  Maia. 

When  all  was  as  it  should  be,  Maia  stood  erect,  immov- 
able. With  the  state  of  those  who  uplift  cornices,  she 
lifted  her  head.  She  showed  tall,  symmetrical  —  a  column 
of  grace,  violet  tinted. 

Thus  had  Maia  veiled  herself,  with  Athens  for  a  mirror. 

Years  after,  in  the  torture  of  imprisonment,  Ion  was 
to  comfort  his  despair  with  the  memory  of  that  picture  — 
of  Maia's  shape,  now  bent,  now  curved,  now  upright  — 
fluid  as  the  violet  seas  —  now  rigid  as  marble.  How  the 
lilac-draped  figure  was  to  haunt  his  fever-licked  eyes! 


Chapter  VIII 

IN  THE  PAINTED  PORCH 

ON  leaving  the  theatre,  Ion  had  lost  sight  of  Timoleon 
and  Glaucus.  He  had  been  caught  between  a  boisterous 
group  of  Thebans.  Once  free,  he  had  found  himself  out- 
side of  the  theatre,  amid  the  statues  and  altars  of  the  pre- 
cinct. 

He  had  half  turned  to  take  the  road  to  the  Odeion, 
when  he  heard  cries,  and  the  rustle  of  a  moving  crowd  ris- 
ing up  from  between  the  walls  leading  to  the  sea. 

What  and  whom  were  the  crowd  following  down  to  Phale- 
rum?  Whom  were  they  acclaiming?  True  Greek  that 
Ion  was,  his  itch  of  curiosity  pricked  him  to  follow. 

From  the  shore  every  movement,  each  gesture,  and  all 
of  Maia's  poses,  Ion  had  watched  with  breathless  eager- 
ness. At  the  first  glimpse  of  her  face,  he  knew  her  as  the 
lovely  creature  he  had  rescued  from  the  clutches  of  the 
drunken  sheperds.  As  he  watched  her,  in  all  her  beauty  of 
plastic  grace  and  exquisite  perfection  of  outline,  his  ex- 
perienced and  difficult  Athenian  eyes  were  never  done  with 
the  joy  of  looking.  He  felt  himself  shaken  by  a  dozen 
conflicting  emotions.  Rapture  was  laced  with  mad  longing 
to  know  all  there  was  to  know  —  who  in  the  name  of  the 
Graces,  could  this  "  Wonder  "  be?  Where  had  she  learned 
her  art?  And  if,  indeed,  a  Corinthian,  whose  companion 
was  she?  —  surely  not  that  elderly  merchant's  —  with  his 
yellow  skin,  and  his  sagging  cheeks?  —  surely  it  was  not  he? 

As  the  ship  had  slipped  away,  lost  to  sight,  the  "  In- 
comparable's  "  violet  draperies  melting  into  the  dusk  of  the 

64 


IN  THE  PAINTED  PORCH  65 

purple  sea  distances,  Ion  felt  himself  possessed  by  one  single 
longing,  one  overmastering  intention.  He  would  haunt  the 
Colonnade,  the  Gymnasia,  the  Agora, —  no  gossip  in  Athens 
should  escape  him,  for  surely  others  beside  himself,  in  all 
that  crowd,  would  make  the  necessary  inquiries,  and  all 
would  soon  be  known. 

Meanwhile,  he  would  take  a  turn  in  the  Painted  Porch. 
Among  all  those  assembled  there,  some  might  have  seen 
the  "  Wonder." 

Even  at  this  festival  time,  Ion  could  count  on  the  famous 
Stoa  being  full.  Timoleon,  even  before  Ion's  Asian  journey, 
had  made  it  the  fashion  to  be  seen  strolling  under  the 
arcade  about,  or  just  before  sundown.  After  the  after- 
noon's work  in  the  Gymnasia,  after  a  long  drive  into  the 
country,  or  fresh  from  the  excitements  of  a  cock-fight,  there 
was  still  a  shade  to  kill  before  the  evening's  banquet. 
Timoleon  had  made  clever  use  of  his  discovery;  at  this  hour 
the  most  beautiful  Porch  in  all  Athens  was  almost  empty. 
Here,  therefore,  about  Eumolpus'  barber  shop,  he  had 
drawn  the  more  exclusive  members  of  the  leading  aristo- 
crats, those  younger  men  whose  opinions  it  was  necessary 
every  political  leader  should  test,  as  well  as  their  willing- 
ness to  follow  a  given  lead. 

It  was  Timoleon's  busiress  in  life  to  feel  the  rising 
Athenian  pulse. 

Long  before  he  reached  the  steps  of  the  Porch,  Ion 
caught  sight  of  Timoleon's  slender,  graceful  figure  lean- 
ing against  his  favorite  column. 

Ion  sent  his  joyous  greeting  ahead  of  him, —  he  called 
out,  through  the  thickly  grouped  statues: 

"Ah-ha —  Timoleon  —  well  met  —  I  counted  on  finding 
you  here — "  and  with  a  spring  whose  lightness  proved 
Ion's  high  athletic  condition,  he  swept  to  the  shaded  floor 
of  the  Colonnade. 


66          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Timoleon's  clever  face  showed  no  perceptible  change.  He 
smiled,  but  there  was  a  touch  of  light  scorn  in  the  curve 
of  his  delicately  finished  lips.  His  gay  holiday  humour 
had  vanished. 

"  Ion,  by  all  that  is  magnificent !  And  with  what  a  lordly 
air  he  carries  his  mantle!  One  would  think  he  owned  all 
Athens,  and  had  a  god  or  two  for  an  ancestor !  " 

Timoleon  smiled  down  with  the  old  familiar  insolence 
veiling  his  keen-eyed  vigilance. 

Ion  laughed,  as  he  took  his  place  among  the  others  of  the 
group  already  assembled. 

A  year  ago  Ion's  sensitive  Greek  nature  would  have 
been  stung  to  the  quick  by  Timoleon's  taunt.  He  was 
hardly  conscious  himself  of  how  much  he  had  gained;  for 
he  scarcely  felt  Timoleon's  sneer.  His  eyes  gleamed,  but 
with  amusement  rather  than  anger. 

Nothing  —  thank  the  gods  —  had  changed !  The  column 
was  as  deliciously  warmed  as  Timoleon's  manner  was  stimu- 
lating cool.  Both  were  precisely  at  the  same  temperature  as 
he  had  left  them. 

Ariston  was  as  smiling,  as  genially  sympathetic  as  Glaucus 
was  feminely  conscious  of  the  cut  and  fall  of  his  curls  and 
the  correct  toss  of  his  mantle. 

Even  Endius,  the  fiery  orator,  was  even  now  trying  to 
collect  his  audience  —  and  the  group  of  the  younger  men 
were  beginning  to  surround  him. 

No-o,  nothing,  had  changed  —  save  only  that  he,  Ion,  had 
gained  a  better  control  of  his  temper  —  for  he  answered 
Timoleon's  taunt  with  a  smile. 

"  How  came  we  to  miss  each  other  —  dear  men  ?  But 
lucky  it  was  that  we  did  —  for  I  have  had  a  most  wonderful 
adventure !  Come  —  come  closer  —  for  what  I  have  to  tell 
Is  of  the  greatest  importance." 


IN  THE  PAINTED  PORCH  67 

With  one  of  those  natural  and  loving  gestures  that  made 
Ion  beloved  of  men,  he  swept  one  arm  about  Ariston,  and 
the  other  about  Glaucus. 

Timoleon  forgot  his  role  of  scornful  indifference;  and 
even  Endius,  the  orator  of  the  group,  stopped  his  harangu- 
ing about  war  to  sip  the  honey  of  gossip. 

Ion  told  his  story  in  brief,  graphic  phrases.  As  he  de- 
scribed the  scene, —  the  emotional  Athenian  faces  were 
flame-lit.  Eyes  glowed,  the  bronze  skins  were  encrimsoned, 
and  the  breath  of  all  came  in  quickened  gasps. 

When  Ion  had  ended,  having  told  all  there  was  to  tell, 
Glaucus  struck  his  tall  cane  upon  the  concrete  with  a  de- 
lighted gesture.  His  cry  of  glee  made  all  heads  turn, 
eagerly,  toward  him. 

"  You  say  the  beauty  was  with  two  elderly  men  —  dear 
Ion?" 

"  Yes,"  Ion  answered,  with  growing  wonder  in  his  eyes. 

"  And  one  had  a  deep  crimson  mantle,  richly  embroidered, 
in  silver  and  purple,  and  the  other  man  had  a  beard,  and 
wore  a  chlamys?"  Glaucus  questioned,  as  though  he 
found  a  peculiar  relish  in  the  situation. 

"Ye  —  es— " 

"  Well  —  dear  boy  —  let  me  give  you  a  piece  of  excellent 
advice:  The  next  time  you  wish  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  a  new  beauty  —  remain  at  home  —  your  father  needs 
watching!  " 

A  shout  of  rapturous  laughter  greeted  Glaucus'  finish. 
The  humour  of  his  suggestion  was  the  better  relished,  as 
Crates  was  known  to  be  the  most  exemplary  of  men  —  a 
model  for  all  widowers  with  a  luxurious  and  extravagant 
son. 

Ion's  expression  of  mingled  amazement  and  annoyance 
furnished  the  laughing  chorus  with  continued  enjoyment. 


68  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Ion's  voice  finally  made  itself  heard. 

"What,  pray,  have  these  two  elderly  strangers  and  the 
divinity  to  do  with  my  father?  " 

Glaucus  swept  a  caressing  arm  about  Ion.  And  then  he 
brought  his  fair  cheek  close  to  Ion's  deeper  bronzed  face. 

"The  beauty  I  met,  this  morning,  at  dawn,  along  the 
Long  Walls,  dear  boy,  was  with  three  men;  and  your 
description  answers  perfectly  to  two  of  them  —  the  third, 
as  I  told  you,  was  no  other  than  your  good  father !  " 

The  announcement  was  greeted  with  shouts  of  delight. 
Ion's  expression  of  mingled  amazement  and  vexation  was  a 
further  source  of  amusement.  The  young  men  made  the 
most  of  the  moment.  Ion  was  being  patted  on  the  back ; 
others  were  offering  to  drive  him  on  the  instant  to  the 
Piraeus,  while  Glaucus  was  crying,  above  the  gleeful  tu- 
mult ; — 

"  Yes  —  that  would  be  the  best  plan, —  Seek  out  your 
father  —  and  when,  under,  the  home  peristyle,  you  have 
wrenched  this  secret  from  him,  come  share  your  knowledge, 
generously,  with  us!" 

"  We'll  make  an  expedition  to  Corinth  —  or  to  Melos  — 
or  wherever  the  '  wonder '  is  to  be  found  "  cried  Timoleon, 
with  a  secret  relish  at  Ion's  evident  discomfiture. 

Ion  had,  however,  recovered  his  self-possession.  He  was 
able  to  smile  with  all  his  usual  good  humour,  as  he  an- 
swered : 

'Tis  I  will  head  the  expedition  —  dear  men  —  and  now, 
till  we  find  her,  what  of  the  new  beauties?  " 

''There's  nothing  very  wonderful,"  lisped  Glaucus. 
'  The  newest  beauty  in  Athens  is  my  thoroughbred  mare." 

There  was  a  shout  of  derisive  laughter.  "  Your  mare  — 
she's  as  old  as  Korinna — " 

"  She's  already  foaled.     She's  — " 

"She's  a  wonder  —  Ion,     You  know  horses  —  I'll  show 


IN  THE  PAINTED  PORCH  69 

her  off  to  you  to-morrow,"  cried  Glaucus,  hotly,  forgetting 
to  lisp. 

"  All  right  —  we'll  ride  out  into  the  country  together." 

"And  what  about  your  own  horses?  How  does  the 
training  go  on  ?  "  cried  Ariston,  laying  an  affectionate  hand 
on  Ion's  shoulder.  Of  all  the  men  in  the  group,  he  best 
loved  the  handsome  Piraean.  He  was  rich  enough,  hand- 
some enough,  and  married,  and  happily,  had  no  envy  of  Ion's 
successes  with  women.  His  own  prick  of  jealousy  came 
from  the  stinging  knowledge  he  was  not  rich  enough  to 
compete  at  Olympia  in  a  chariot  race. 

"  Ah  —  dear  boys,"  cried  Ion,  his  whole  face  now  ir- 
radiant  —  "  Congratulate  me !  My  trainer  writes  me  the 
horses  were  never  in  better  condition  —  they  will  pass  any- 
thing." 

The  circle  closed  in  about  Ion.  Every  man's  breath  came 
again  with  quickened  relish.  Ion  might  be  a  despised 
Piraean,  yet,  since  he  was  to  compete  at  Olympia  —  and  with 
his  own  horses  —  horses  raised  on  his  own  farm  —  his  com- 
ing elevation  before  the  eyes  of  all  Hellas  —  as  a  wealthy 
charioteer,  placed  him,  at  last,  on  their  own  level.  Every 
man  felt  his  coming  race  to  be  theirs.  The  bets  already 
exchanged  on  the  issue  made  each  man  as  eager  for  news 
of  the  trainer's  condition,  for  the  speed  and  health  of  the 
horses,  as  though  the  race  was  indeed  to  be  their  own. 
Not  only  his  own  set,  but  all  Athens  and  the  Piraeus  had 
had  their  eyes  and  minds  fixed  upon  Ion  and  his  great 
venture  for  long  months. 

"  You'll  have  Thebes  to  fight,"  Glaucus  said,  in  an  ag- 
gressive tone.  He  had  bet,  over  the  wine-cups,  nearly  half 
a  talent  on  Thebes. 

"  Yes  — "  slowly  answered  Ion  — "  so  I  hear  —  the  state 
sends  a  magnificent  car  —  this  year.  Two  of  the  stallions 
came  out  of  Castor  —  from  our  stud." 


70  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

"Well —  at  least  you'll  not  have  Alcibiades  to  run 
against  —  with  his  seven  chariots." 

"  Perhaps  —  had  I  run  at  the  last  Olympic  he  might  not 
have  carried  off  two  crowns  and  been  thrice  acclaimed  —  by 
the  herald!" 

Ion's  coolness  delighted  the  group. 

"  Hear  him !  "  mocked  Timoleon,  yet  with  eyes  gleaming 
—  for  the  talk  of  a  race  had  sent  his  slower  blood  to 
pulsing,  "  Hear  him !  One  would  think  him  a  professional 

—  already   following   up   the    games,    like    an    athlete  —  a 
hundred  times  a  victor!  " 

"  Well  —  would  you  have  me  show  the  white  feather  ?  " 
Ion  burst  forth,  with  sudden  passion,  his  handsome  face 
flaming.  "  Of  course  I  believe  in  my  winning  —  I  intend 
to  win!  I  have  the  best  trainer  in  all  Hellas  —  and  my 
horses  are  the  fastest  —  the  surest-winded  —  the  least 
startled  by  new  things,  and  the  chariot  is  built  to  weigh 

—  to  an  ounce  —  what  the  horses  can  best  carry  —  while 
every  one  knows  how  my  groom  trains  down,  once  he  must. 
With  such  advantages  why  should  I  not  win?     I  tell  you  I 
shall!     I'd  put  all  my  fortune  on  the  stake.     Who  will 
put  up  his  against  me  ?  " 

No  one  spoke.  But  every  man  breathed  yet  harder. 
Ion's  enthusiasm,  his  passionate  outburst,  had  made  every 
man  in  the  group  seem  to  smell  the  fresh  dawn  rising  over 
the  green  hills  of  Olympia,  to  see  before  him  the  sanded 
elipse  of  the  Hippodrome,  the  bending,  shouting  crowds,  to 
feel,  in  a  word,  even  at  that  distance,  the  thrill  of  all  the 
greater  moments  of  the  race. 

"  For  my  part,"  cried  Ariston,  giving  his  mantle  an 
impatient  toss,  "  I  wish  Olympia  were  over  —  I  hate  wait- 
ing. Five  years  seems  an  eternity." 

"  Isn't  that  a  bit  of  Sardian  amber?  "  suddenly  queried  a 
tall  young  man,  whose  fingers  were  laden  with  rings.  He 


IN  THE  PAINTED  PORCH  71 

had  taken  no  part  in  the  talk.  He  had  been  devouring  Ion 
with  his  eyes.  He  had  always  considered  him  the  best- 
dressed  man  in  Athens.  These  new  adornments  demanded 
a  close  study.  The  deep-eyes  jewel,  set  in  Ion's  long  cane, 
appealed  to  this  fashionable  lounger  far  more  than  did  an 
Olympian  race. 

"  Yes,"  Ion  replied,  somewhat  indifferently.  He  liked  to 
talk  about  horses  rather  than  jewels.  "  It  was  a  present 
from  the  Lydian  King." 

"  I  thought  he  usually  gave  horses,"  Glaucus  was  quick 
to  say. 

"  And  so  he  does,  but,"  and  here  Ion  stopped,  "  But 
who,  pray,  may  that  be  ?  " 

A  countryfied  looking  man,  with  a  long  brush  of  hair 
and  thick  beard,  was  seen  making  his  way  towards  Timo- 
leon.  He  grasped  his  himation  in  loutish  fashion.  A  large 
portion  of  his  bared,  hairy  legs  was  on  view.  To  every 
one's  surprise,  Timoleon's  greeting  of  the  stranger  was  un- 
affectedly hearty.  He  withdrew  with  him,  to  a  distant  end 
of  the  Colonnade.  They  were  soon  in  deep  talk. 

Those  he  had  left  burst  into  feverish  speech.  Who  could 
this  astonishing-looking  individual  be?  Where  had  Timo- 
leon  met  such  a  creature? 

"  It  must  be  one  of  those  Sicilians.  There  are  any 
number  of  dirty  Segestans  infesting  the  city  just  now,"  cried 
Glaucus,  in  disgust.  He  hated  politics.  He  was  a  peace 
man  —  but  in  secret.  Belonging  to  a  fashionable  circle  had 
its  advantages.  He  now  never  dared  avow  his  principles. 
They  —  all  his  set  —  were  all  for  war  —  for  any  war. 

"Ah-h —  this  is  interesting!"  cried  Ion.  He  felt  his 
pulse  stirring.  Politics  always  went  to  his  head  as  neat 
wine  never  did.  "  I  heard  something  of  this  on  ship- 
board." 

The  group  circled  closer  about  Ion. 


72          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

"  And  what  did  you  hear,  my  Ion?  " 

Timoleon  had  returned.  Swiftly,  noiselessly  he  had 
swept  to  Ion's  side.  The  clever  face,  glistening  now  with 
eager  animation  was  close  to  his  own.  His  lips  were 
wreathed  in  smiles  — and  his  arm  was  now  about  Ion's 
neck.  How  well  his  own  secret  little  plot  was  working! 
They  were  bristling  —  all  of  them  — any  one  could  see, 
with  curiosity.  He,  Timoleon,  would  go  on  pulling  more 
strings.  "  You  were  saying?  " 

"That  I  heard  some  talk  of  this  Sicilian  affair  on  ship- 
board." 

"Ah  — already!"  chorused  the  voices.     The  men  drew 

closer  about  Ion. 

"  Yes  —  the  Captain  and  some  of  the  passengers  had  ar- 
ranged the  whole  campaign !  " 

"Indeed!"  Timoleon  attempted  to  touch  his  note  with 
satire.  But  he  was  himself  shaken  by  Ion's  news.  The 
outer  world  already  talking  war  —  and  Athens  not  even  — 
as  yet  —  knowing  her  own  mind !  The  whole  thing  a  mere 
muddle  —  a  political  plaything  —  and  the  part  Athens  was 
to  take  already  world's  talk! 

"  It  would  be  interesting  to  learn  what  part  we  Athenians 
were  to  play  —  in  this  well  thought-out  scheme !  "  He  was 
almost  talking  his  thought  out. 

"  Well  —  our  part  was  not  to  be  a  glorious  one,"  Ion 
laughed,  as  he  recalled  the  ship's  prophecy.  "  We  were  to 
be  soundly  beaten  —  if  ever  we  took  up  the  quarrel." 

"  Ha!  ha!  ha!"  the  laughter  rang  out  lustily  from  the 
strong  young  throats.  Athens  beaten  by  the  Sicilians!  The 
thought  was  as  humorous  as  a  witticism  of  Aristophanes. 

"  It  is  better  we  were  beaten  now  than  later,  as  we  surely 
shall  be,"  cried  Endius  in  a  voice  so  deep  and  rich  its  tones 
rose  above  the  mocking  laughter. 

"  Hear!     Hear!  "  mocked  Glaucus,  stamping  noisily  with 


'  IN  THE  PAINTED  PORCH  73 

his  cane.  His  Spartan  dog  sat  up  on  its  haunches  and 
barked.  The  shouting  had  excited  him.  Glaucus  laughed 
gaily.  "  Behold  —  even  my  dog  recognizes  a  prophet.  He 
greets  the  oracle  among  us  —  discoursing  wisdom !  "  He 
was  doing  his  best  to  kill  the  threatened  —  the  almost  certain 
talk,  with  its  political  platitudes. 

But  politics  was  the  trade  —  the  sole  trade  —  of  these 
excitable  young  aristocrats.  Endius  was  known  as  a  pow- 
erful speaker.  The  circle  closed  quickly  about  him. 

"You  think  that  we  should  take  up  this  quarrel?"  Ion 
asked  hotly.  He  was  conscious  of  a  speeding  pulse.  He 
knew  himself  now  —  at  last  —  to  be  alive  —  at  every  pore. 
What  it  was  to  be  in  Athens  once  more  —  to  be  close  to  the 
living  heart  of  the  universe! 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  answered  Endius,  with  dignity.  He  had 
gathered  his  mantle.  He  held  it  tight,  with  his  left  hand, 
that  his  right  might  be  freed  for  expressive  gesture.  "  And 
for  the  best  of  reasons!  "  The  circle  closed  in  the  nearer. 
"  If  the  Syracusan  fleet  is  successful  —  if  they  overpower 
the  rest  of  Sicily  —  what  is  to  prevent  their  joining  the 
Spartans  —  the  Corinthians  —  all  who  are  against  us  ?  The 
Syracusans  are  Dorians  —  we  must  never  forget  that.  As 
Dorians  —  Sparta,  Corinth,  all  the  Peloponnesus  are  their 
natural  allies.  It  is  only  a  question  of  time  —  and  of 
strength,  when  this  alliance  will  come  about.  Unless  we 
go  to  the  rescue  of  the  Segestans  —  the  Sicilians  will  surely 
join  Sparta.  Before  such  forces  Athens'  fate  is  sealed. 
She  can  never  fight  all  Greece  and  Sicily.  All  the  gold  and 
gods  in  Attica  cannot  save  her." 

The  words,  uttered  in  Endius'  most  awesome  tones,  struck 
like  a  knell  on  the  hearts  of  his  hearers.  A  slight  shudder 
passed  through  the  group.  Faces  fell.  Some  god  —  bent 
on  vengeance,  doubtless,  was  passing  over-head,  darkening 
the  gold  of  the  sky.  Did  the  spirit  of  a  baneful  prophecy 


74  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

indeed  possess  Endius?  Men  turned  to  each  other  with  the 
look  of  those  who  have  heard  a  hateful  truth,  and  yet  pro- 
pose to  make  light  of  it. 

Every  one  now  talked  at  once.  Denials,  arguments,  ref- 
utations, rumors,  clashing  opinions  —  the  golden  air  and  the 
Colonnade  echoed  to  the  war  of  their  words.  Only  Timo- 
leon  —  like  some  evil  sprite  that  had  heard,  among  mortals, 
the  proof  of  the  mischief  he  hoped  to  find  brewing  —  only 
Timoleon's  face  glistened  with  rapture.  What  news  for 
Alcibiades!" 

Glaucus,  meanwhile,  had  wormed  himself  out  of  the 
group.  There  would  be  barely  time,  he  reflected,  for  all 
there  was  to  be  done  before  the  evening's  banquet.  He  had 
lifted  his  eyes ;  the  golden  glow,  he  saw,  had  died  out  of  the 
sky. 

"  By  the  holy  grapes !  "  he  cried,  in  a  horrified  tone,  "  all 
this  war-talk  has  made  me  forget  my  banquet  —  and  my 
beard!  It  is  as  long  as  a  goat's  —  I'll  see  you  all,  later 
on." 

"  I  join  you  — " 

"  And  I  —  my  beard,  too,  grows  in  an  hour." 
One  by  one  the  gilded  youth  took  up  their  accustomed 
walk  towards  the  barber's  shop.  Some  entered  the  low 
door.  Others  stood  outside,  or  dropped  into  the  seats 
designed  for  those  who  must  wait.  Aloft,  above  the  young 
men's  heads,  a  joyous  band  of  merry  nymphs  faced  a  sor- 
rowful group  of  Persian  captives.  Pictures,  statues,  and  the 
living  groups  lay  in  deep  shadow.  For  the  sun  was  now 
wholly  set. 

Ion  had  almost  gained  the  street  level,  when  he  lifted  his 
head.  Timoleon  stood,  alone,  as  though  in  deep  thought. 
Slowly,  he  presently  descended  the  steps. 

"You  go  my  way,  Timoleon?    Will  you  come  for  a 


IN  THE  PAINTED  PORCH  75 

bath  ?  My  new  Persian  slaves  give  one  in  the  Persian  way. 
It  is  very  refreshing." 

Timoleon  let  his  foot  drag.  He  was  delighted  at  the  in- 
vitation. He  longed  to  get  more  news  —  out  of  Ion;  and 
to  have  the  promise  of  a  fresh  experience  at  the  same  time. 
Nothing  could  have  pleased  him  better.  But  he  wanted  Ion 
to  feel  he  was  conferring,  rather  than  accepting  a  favour. 

"  Yes  —  I  will  gladly  go  —  I  have  heard  already  of  that 
wonderful  bath  of  yours.  By  the  way  —  I  forgot  to  ask 
you  —  are  Persian  women  beautiful?  —  as  beautiful  as  this 
new  divinity?  " 

They  walked  on,  between  the  rows  of  statues,  and  the 
talk  fell  upon  beauty  —  on  what  really  constituted  its  true 
elements,  since  no  one  race  or  people  hold  the  same  stand- 
ards. 


Chapter    IX 

A   BREAKFAST   AT  THE   PIR^US 

THE  very  morning  after  the  foregoing  scene,  Ion  at  dawn, 
had  a  rude  awakening. 

His  body  slave  Persia  swung  open  the  tapestry  that  hung 
before  his  master's  door.  Persia  entered  the  narrow  cell- 
like  room  with  a  bound.  There  was  no  time  for  the  cus- 
tomary care  with  which  Ion  was  usually  awakened.  What 
Persia  had  to  say  was  of  such  vital  importance,  the  slave 
found  the  greater  difficulty  in  framing  his  words. 

"Master!     Master!"  he  called  forth,  quaveringly. 

Ion  had  already  leapt  to  an  upright  upon  his  narrow  bed. 
His  eyes,  now  fully  dilated,  rendered  back  their  messags  — 
the  message  of  apprehended  disaster.  Disaster  of  some  sort 
had  come  to  him,  else  never  would  Persia  show  such  pallor 
beneath  his  bronze. 

"What  in  the  name  of  Hecate  is  the  matter?"  Ion 
cried  out. 

Ion's  answer  came  in  dramatic  fashion.  A  form,  slim, 
half  naked,  running  as  a  man  runs  in  sleep,  his  body  swung 
forward  with  a  will  that  seemed  to  have  lost  its  piloting 
power  —  such  a  shape  swept  across  the  court.  First  it  flung 
itself  against  Ion's  hangings.  Then,  with  a  thud,  it  came 
to  a  drop.  It  now  lay  prone,  across  Ion's  threshold.  With 
a  low  groan  the  man's  hanging  tongue  lipped  the  con- 
crete. 

"As  you  see,  Master  —  he  is  spent!"  softly  murmured 
Persia.  "  Yet  he  has  a  message  to  give  —  I  dared  not  let 

76 


*       77 

him  wait."  Persia  lifted  appeallingly  his  great  eyes,  as 
though  to  let  them  say  what  he  dared  not. 

But  Ion  was  bending  over  the  prostrate  form.  He 
touched  the  man's  heaving  shoulders.  Bursting  though  he 
felt  himself  to  be,  with  the  rending  torment  of  his  fears, 
doubts,  and  dread,  even  at  that  crucial  moment  Ion  was 
kind. 

"  Tell  me  —  my  boy  —  what  is  this  news  ?  There  is 
nothing  —  nothing  wrong  —  at  the  Piraeus?"  Ion  felt  his 
heart's  beats  suddenly  die,  as  he  asked  the  fearsome  ques- 
tion. He  knew  now  how  he  loved  his  father. 

The  man  was  gasping  out  the  words. 

"  It  is  —  Pollux  —  the  grey  —  stallion  —  he  —  he  has 
gone  —  lame  —  he  fell."  With  this  word  it  was  the  run- 
ner's head  that  fell.  The  effort  to  hold  it  erect,  to  bubble 
forth  his  words  had  been  the  last  over-strain.  The  ex- 
hausted forces  within  voiced  their  collapse  in  a  prolonged 
inarticulate  groan.  The  youth's  form  lay  like  a  fallen 
shroud  across  Ion's  threshold. 

For  a  long  instant  neither  Ion  nor  Persia  stirred.  After 
the  first  quick  leap  of  relief,  at  learning  nothing  had  hap- 
pened to  his  father,  Ion's  heart  had  turned  to  lead.  The 
blow  that  had  fallen  stunned  him  so  thoroughly,  that  he, 
along  with  his  runner,  seemed  to  lie  there,  dead,  inert. 
Absently,  vacantly,  he  sat  upon  his  couch,  looking  out  into 
the  dim  court.  A  great  hope  seemed  to  be  going  down  with 
the  stars. 

The  news  the  runner  had  brought  might  have  most  dis- 
astrous consequences.  Pollux,  of  all  his  four  entered  for 
the  great  race,  was  the  most  famous  stallion  in  Arcadia. 
Of  distinguished  pedigree,  his  breeding  and  training  had 
been  watched  over  only  as  horse-breeders  rear  colts  fathered 
by  a  long  line  of  race  winners.  As  the  leader  of  the  team, 
Pollux's  record  for  speed  and  his  equine  perfections  had 


78          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

been  carefully  considered.  If  Ion's  car  came  off  victorious, 
at  Olympia,  it  would  be  largely  due  to  Pollux's  unsur- 
passable qualities. 

The  crumbled  tablet  leaf  the  runner  brought  Ion  from 
his  trainer,  at  the  farm,  yielded  some  comfort  to  Ion's 
gnawing  fears  and  dread.  Pollux  had  fallen,  and  his  right 
foreleg  was  strained;  but  there  were  no  bones  broken;  a 
splint  and  a  week's  rest  ought  to  bring  him  round.  In  the 
meantime,  there  was  always  the  doubt  as  to  whether  a  stiff- 
ened joint  would  appear.  In  that  case,  the  trainer  asked, 
would  the  Master  advise  the  breaking  in  of  one  of  the  other 
stallions  —  those  they  had  talked  over  as  possibly  best  fitted 
for  the  race? 

After  reading  the  lines  of  the  leaf,  Ion  sprang  to  his 
feet.  Now  that  action  was  demanded,  Ion  was  all  energy, 
fire,  decision.  His  powers  to  think  and  to  act  came  to  him 
with  redoubled  force. 

Standing  in  the  middle  of  his  chamber,  Ion  clapped  his 
hands.  A  dozen  slaves  came  pattering  across  the  court. 

"Take  him  up  —  bathe  him  —  rub  him  warm.  Then 
force  neat  wine  between  his  lips  —  he'll  soon  be  himself." 
And  Ion  pointed  to  the  runner. 

With  noiseless  ease  the  stiffened  shape  was  lifted.  Strong 
arms  carried  their  burden  to  the  slaves'  quarters.  To  the 
Persian,  Ion  turned  with  less  assured  voice  and  gesture. 

"  You  are  to  go,  to  sit  beside  his  couch,"  he  whispered, 
hurriedly.  "Never  take  your  eyes  off  him  —  feed  him, 
dress  him  —  yourself  —  mind.  Then  get  him  out  of  Athens 
—  as  soon  as  he  can  straddle  a  mule.  Ride  with  him  — 
night  and  day  till  you  reach  the  farm.  I  follow  shortly  — ." 
Ion's  voice  was  actually  hoarse  with  excitement.  What- 
ever transpired,  the  news  his  runner  had  brought  must  be 
kept  secret.  With  the  bets  already  booked  on  his  car,  in 
Athens  and  the  Piraeus,  the  secret  of  this  disaster  must  be 


A  BREAKFAST  AT  THE  PIR^US  79 

kept.  In  a  week's  time  Pollux  would  be  either  as  good  as 
he  ever  was,  or  of  no  account  whatever. 

"Shall  I  wait  to  dress  you,  O  Master?"  Ion  heard 
Persia  ask,  as  he  followed  Ion  to  the  room  where  the  bath 
was  awaiting  him. 

"  No-o  —  send  me  Eupolis  —  and  write  me  daily,  from 
the  farm." 

The  Persian  saluted  his  master  and  disappeared. 

As  the  revivifying  stream  of  cold  water  was  poured  over 
Ion's  vigorous  frame,  the  warmed  blood  brought  freshened 
energies.  Ion's  buoyant  Greek  nature  soon  had  its  rebound. 
He  thought  of  a  dozen  instances  of  celebrated  stallions  go- 
ing lame,  and  of  their  subsequent  miraculous  recovery. 
Since  there  were  no  broken  bones  that  must  be  re-knit,  Pol- 
lux's accident  would  be  a  mere  incident;  an  animal  of  his 
build  and  pedigree  would  recover  sooner  than  stallions  of 
commoner  stock. 

One  fact  stood  out  clear  as  the  now  breaking  day;  Ion 
felt  he  must  see  his  father,  and  at  once.  Crates  must  be 
made  to  perceive  the  necessity  of  his  —  of  Ion's  —  pro- 
ceeding to  the  Farm,  without  delay. 

Having  decided  this  point,  Ion  gave  his  orders  for  his 
town  cart  to  be  brought.  He  would  start  for  the  Port  at 
once.  Even  as  he  called  out  his  command,  he  remembered, 
with  a  pang,  that  this  was  the  day  on  which  Crates  had 
consented  to  give  a  breakfast,  to  Timoleon  and  their  set. 
Confound  the  fates!  how  badly  things  were  arranged  for  a 
man  with  his  pet  stallion  gone  lame,  and  a  grave  secret  to 
guard.  Swear  against  the  Fates  as  he  might,  Ion  knew  he 
he  had  only  himself  to  blame  for  this  prospective  feast.  He 
had  talked  his  father  into  giving  this  breakfast,  by  playing 
upon  the  chord  of  its  political  importance.  If  the  Sicilian 
war  was  really  to  come  off,  Crates  with  his  world-wide  com- 
mercial interests,  ought  to  know  the  worst  —  and  all  that 


8o 

the  war  party  believed  would  surely  be  the  best,  that  was 
to  happen. 

These  arguments  Crates  had  found  irresistible.  Ion's 
recent  return,  and  a  new  masterpiece,  recently  purchased  — 
a  tiny  Apollo  —  said  to  be  a  true  Phidian  —  were  the  rea- 
sons given  out  for  the  Piraean's  invitation  to  the  group  of 
young  Athenian  nobles  Crates  proudly  called — "my  son 
Ion's  set." 

Ion's  insuppressable  buoyancy  now  brought  him  quick 
solace.  Since  the  breakfast  was  inevitable,  he  would  use 
the  occasion.  It  would  be  the  best  of  all  ways  of  ex- 
plaining his  coming  departure.  As  public  an  announce- 
ment would  rob  the  secret  of  all  mystery. 

On  his  way  to  the  Dipylon,  Ion  drew  his  quick-stepping 
bays  up  short,  before  a  certain  priest's  house.  A  long-haired 
man  came  out  from  a  tiny  garden.  He  held  a  myrtle 
bough  in  his  hand.  A  shrine  stood  within  the  green  en- 
closure. 

Ion  said  a  few  words  to  the  saintly  man.  Then  from  his 
high  seat  he  bent  forward.  A  shower  of  silver  was  poured 
into  the  priest's  hand. 

The  priest,  as  he  caught  sight  of  the  same,  stared,  gasped, 
and  grasped,  instinctively  at  his  myrtle  boughs.  He  dashed 
backwards,  plunged  the  bough  into  a  fount  of  holy  water, 
and  flung  the  bright  drops  outward,  upward,  with  a  des- 
perate effort.  He  managed,  before  Ion  had  fully  captured 
his  reins,  literally  to  shower  upon  Ion's  face  and  bared  arms 
his  lustral  baptism. 

Ion's  joyous  laughter  was  the  priest's  answer.  The  lat- 
ter's  loud  invocation  to  Hippias,  the  horse-loving  god,  fol- 
lowed Ion  down  the  torturous  street.  "  Your  rich  offer- 
ing, dear  sir,"  the  priest  called  out,  "  shall  be  devoted  to 
peculiarly  choice  selection  of  sacrifice !  " 

With  the  priest's  blessing  following  after  him,  Ion  was 


A  BREAKFAST  AT  THE  PIR^US          81 

in  a  mood  to  laugh  at  this  timid  yielding  to  a  pious  im- 
pulse. Ion,  like  all  of  his  class,  shared  in  the  growing  un- 
belief in  the  divine  nature  of  the  hundred  gods  of  his  city. 
But  Ion  found,  as  did  his  father,  that  he  was  a  countryman's 
son.  He  had  the  instinctive  caution,  at  critical  moment, 
in  matters  of  religion.  If  gods  there  were,  it  was  as  well 
to  be  on  the  safe  side.  He  dashed  a  drop  of  holy  water 
from  his  beard,  even  as  he  laughed.  Yet  in  his  soul  there 
was  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  in  knowing  the  gods  were  being 
importuned. 

Thud!  Thud!  Thud!  It  was  good  to  hear  the 
rythmical  drop  of  his  horses'  unshod  hoofs.  Their  silken 
coats,  narrow  flanks,  and  small  spirited  heads  spoke  to  his 
mounting  hope  —  surely  one  who  owned  a  stud  such  as 
his  had  no  reasons  for  despondency.  Even  were  the  worst 
to  happen  —  other  stallions  there  were  besides  Pollux.  Yet, 
at  the  bare  thought  of  running  his  race  without  Pollux, 
Ion  felt  his  heart  in  his  throat.  Across  all  the  distance  of 
sea  and  mountain  slopes,  the  beautiful  creature's  reproachful 
eyes  seemed  to  meet  his  here,  beneath  these  radiant  skies  — 
to  say  "  Who  can  lead  as  I  shall  lead  ?  Who  as  quick  as 
I  to  feel  the  mounting  flame  of  excitement?  Whose  muscles 
are  as  supple  —  whose  breath  as  deep  ? "  And  at  the 
thought  of  his  darling's  staying  qualities,  Ion's  glad  shout  of 
joy  all  but  burst  from  him.  No!  No!  No!  Pollux  would 
never  go  lame!  Such  a  miracle  of  equine  perfection  would 
go  as  swift  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind,  as  ever  he  did  —  in 
a  few  days'  time ! 

With  the  happy  assurance  warming  his  heart  Ion  lifted 
his  eyes.  He  saw  the  outlined  hills  quivering  with  light. 
The  morning  sky  was  at  its  bluest.  The  warm  spring, 
with  its  mounting  pulses,  the  juicy  scent  of  growing  grain 
and  a  thousand  shrubs  and  flowers  —  this  new-born  hope, 
springing  from  Demeter's  breast,  swept  upwards  from  the 


$2 

fertile  Attic  plain,  filling  the  morning  air  with  freshness  and 
perfume. 

Thud!  Thud!  Thud!  the  soft  drop  of  his  steeds'  un- 
shod feet  beat  in  tune  with  this  wider  —  this  more  uni- 
versal rhythm.  It  was  impossible  not  to  feel  the  contagion 
of  such  spirited  life,  such  leaping  forces  of  things  human  and 
divine.  How  easy,  how  natural,  beneath  Greek  skies,  to 
feel  life  to  be  a  joyous  gift!  The  very  light  seemed  to 
weave  a  celestial  coronal.  All  things  seemed  possible  — 
achievement  appeared  merely  to  wait  on  desire.  There  was 
divinity  in  the  very  air  —  its  yielding  quality  caressed  hope 
• —  its  prick  of  vigour  was  a  perpetual  spur  to  activity. 

As  Ion  picked  his  way  through  the  crowds  of  carts,  cars, 
laden  asses  and  mules,  and  the  throng  of  foot-passengers, 
his  quick  mind  roved,  as  a  young  man's  will,  from  one  wrorld 
within  his  mind  to  another.  The  war-possibility  loomed 
large.  "  Well  —  if  war  is  to  come  —  I  am  heart  and  soul 
for  the  venture!  I  am  with  Timoleon  in  this  —  Athens  is 
growing  too  used  to  easy  ways.  We  are,  indeed,  too  eager 
about  women,  and  games,  and  drinking  bouts  and  cock- 
fights—  by  the  way  —  when  did  Ariston  say  Agesilaus  was 
to  have  that  match?  I  must  enter  that  query — ." 

Flinging  his  reins  to  the  groom  who  sat  beside  him,  Ion 
steadied  the  tablet  that  hung  from  his  girdle  —  to  mark 
his  reminder. 

As  he  gathered  the  ribbons  in  his  firm  hand,  Ion  reined  in 
his  team,  with  a  quick  jerk. 

"  Ah-h  my  man !     Not  so  close,  another  time !  " 

A  huge  Gaul,  with  face  blanched  with  fright,  had  run 
athwart  Ion's  pole-cart.  He  had  escaped  being  grazed  by 
a  hair's  breadth.  As  the  Gaul  flung  himself  against  the 
wall,  gasping  his  relief,  two  hetaera,  whose  litter-carriers 
were  waiting  for  a  chance  to  cross  the  crowded  thorough- 
fare, laughed  upwards  their  scorn  of  big  men's  fright. 


A  BREAKFAST  AT  THE  PIR^US  83 

To  one  of  the  girls  Ion  sent  a  long  admiring  look.  For 
a  full  instant  the  four  young  orbs  were  interlocked. 

What  a  lovely  creature !  How  well  she  knew  how  to  lie 
in  a  litter!  What  provocative  grace!  Her  draperies 
caressed  her  shape,  every  outline  was  as  clearly  defined  as 
were  the  best  sculptors'  chiselled  marble  perfections.  She 
was  surely  that  lanthe  everyone  was  talking  of  —  come 
fresh  from  Corinth.  Ion  decided  to  hang  a  garland  on  the 
new  beauty's  door  at  the  very  first  opportunity. 

Then  —  the  quick  thought  came,  that  other  —  that  loveli- 
est of  all  Corinthians  —  who  in  the  name  of  all  the  graces 
could  she  be?  And,  of  all  amazing  mysteries  —  how  came 
his  father  to  be  in  her  company?  That  his  father  should 
have  any  secret  to  withhold  was  in  itself,  a  matter  for 
amazed  disgust.  Yet  —  yet  surely  there  must  be  some 
natural  —  some  quite  simple  explanation  of  the  occurrence. 

"  Let  me  try  to  remember  —  what  did  he  say  about 
meeting  some  one  —  a  Corinthian  —  at  Phalerum?  Was  it 
not  Nirias?"  Ion  drew  in  his  roadsters  with  such  a  ner- 
vous grasp  that  the  animals  reared  —  but  the  mystery  was 
solved.  As  he  quieted  his  steeds,  Ion's  face  was  radiant 
with  mirth.  "  Ah-h  father  —  father  —  now  I  know  why 
you  were  so  indifferent  —  why  it  was  a  matter  of  slight 
importance  as  to  whether  we  met  at  the  theatre  or  not  — " 
and  as  Ion  thought  on  the  picture  of  his  parent's  discomfi- 
ture, when  he  found  his  little  ruse  had  not  worked,  Ion 
laughed  outright. 

"  How  simple  are  our  fathers !  To  think  that  in  Athens 
such  a  beauty  as  she  could  have  come  within  our  walls, 
and  that  two  old  men  could  have  kept  her  hidden !  " 

With  such  light-hearted  thoughts  as  companion,  the  drive 
down  to  the  Port  was  short.  The  sea  breezes  each  instant 
were  blowing  fresher  and  fresher.  Glints  of  intensest  blue 
showed  the  ^Egean  growing  nearer,  at  every  onward  step. 


84 

The  throng  of  passers-by,  of  carts  and  waggons,  of  mules, 
heavily  laden,  grew  thicker,  denser.  Ion  slackened  his  speed. 
All  his  eyes  and  skill  now  were  needed  to  guide  his  steeds 
in  safety  through  the  packed  Pirsean  thoroughfares. 

He  did  not  enter  the  inner  city,  he  turned  to  the  left,  to 
gain  the  western  slope  of  Munychia  hill. 

Crates'  house  stood  on  the  hill  overlooking  the  smaller 
Piraean  harbour  of  Zea.  Its  wide  porch  faced  thus  Athens 
and  the  grand  sweep  of  plain  and  mountain  range.  The 
tiny  harbour,  below  the  Pirasan  promontory,  was  set,  like  a 
blue  jewel,  in  among  its  rim  of  yellow  sands  and  green 
fields.  The  turquoise  waters  were  now  black  with  ships. 
Packed  like  eels  within  the  tiny  harbour,  lay  Athens'  war 
triremes.  Swarming  over  deck  sides  and  the  topaz  beach 
were  hundreds  of  ship  carpenters,  of  slaves,  of  practised  oars- 
men in  charge  of  their  ships,  and  of  officers  exercising  their 
crews.  Their  shouts  and  curses  were  carried  upwards  to 
Crates'  porch,  in  the  still,  clear  Attic  air. 

As  Ion  swept  up  the  incline  that  led  to  his  father's  fine 
house,  whose  dimensions  were  in  such  marked  contrast  to  the 
mean  Athenian  dwellings,  his  eye,  as  it  took  in  the  beauty 
and  splendour  of  the  scene,  gleamed  with  delight.  Never 
had  the  grandeur  of  the  mountains,  riding  northward; — 
never  had  the  incomparable  glory  of  the  Acropolis ; —  never 
had  Athens,  thus  crowned  with  its  temples  and  gods, —  never 
had  the  setting  of  the  city  that  all  but  ruled  the  world  so 
impressed  him  with  a  sense  of  its  magnificence. 

With  his  quick  Greek  impulse  to  let  the  last  emotion 
seem  the  one  feeling  worthy  of  expression,  Ion,  as  he  leapt 
from  the  cart,  threw  his  reins  to  his  groom,  and  rushed,  to 
fling  his  arms  about  his  father,  who  stood,  awaiting  him  on 
the  porch,  as  he  cried  out  — 

"  O,  father !  how  glorious  it  all  is  —  and  why  should  one 
live  in  dirty  Athens,  when  here  there  is  all  this  — and 


A  BREAKFAST  AT  THE  PIRAEUS          85 

this  —  and  this  ?  "  And  Ion  swept  his  hand  about  to  in- 
clude the  whole  great  prospect. 

Crates  smiled,  indulgently.  He  kissed  Ion,  even  a  little 
more  lovingly.  "  Dearest  boy  —  who  ever  knew  one  who 
dwelt  in  Athens  to  desert  Athens  for  despised  Piraeus?" 

Crates,  with  his  eyes  rivetted  on  his  Ion's  glowing 
features  —  scanning  each  perfection  as  though  he  were  a 
lover —  asked,  gently:  "And  what  news  —  dear  boy?" 

Ion  returned  his  father's  loving  looks,  as  he  collected 
his  thoughts.  He  would  first  talk  of  indifferent  matters, 
before  telling  him  of  Pollux's  misfortune. 

"Well,  father,  all  Athens  is  fighting  Sicily!"  he  said, 
as  the  two  now  entered  the  wide  peristyle.  Still  they  kept 
their  arms  circled  about  the  others'  shoulders.  Of  the  same 
height,  their  faces  were  on  a  level. 

Crates  stopped,  abruptly:  his  powerful  countenance 
flushed,  with  sudden  heat. 

"What  ignorance!  What  folly  —  and  worse!  And  this 
is  Athens'  adored  Alcibiades,  who  proposes  to  govern  Athens? 
He  to  lead  our  fleet  into  such  adventures  as  this!  Let 
me  tell  you,  Ion,"  Crates  leaned  across  his  shoulder,"  if 
indeed  Alcibiades  persuades  Athens  to  undertake  any  such 
disastrous  campaign  —  it  will  be  the  awful  beginning  of 
a  terrible  end !  "  Crates  spoke  with  such  intensity  of  con- 
viction and  sorrowful  fulness  of  feeling,  even  Ion  felt  him- 
self shaken. 

"  That  is  precisely  what  Socrates  says,"  Ion  said,  after 
a  cautious  pause.  He  had  taken  time  to  sweep  his  hand- 
kerchief across  his  lips  to  gain  perfect  control  —  for  Ion 
made  it  a  point  never  quarrel  with  his  father  over  their 
differences  in  politics. 

"  Ah-h,  the  only  sensible  remark  I  ever  heard  of  his  mak- 
ing)" grumbled  Crates." 

"  What  a  good  hater  you  are,  dear  man,"  laughed  Ion. 


86  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

With  a  luxurious  motion,  he  flung  himself  upon  a  low 
couch.  The  two  had  now  entered  the  pastas,  a  large  room, 
filled  with  light. 

Crates'  couch  and  Ion's  both  faced  the  door  —  one  pur- 
posely widened  to  admit  as  much  of  the  perfume  and  ver- 
dure entering  into  the  room  as  was  possible.  Beyond  — 
through  the  slits  of  the  poplar  leaves,  and  beyond  the  wider 
network  of  the  elms,  the  willows  and  the  tamarisks,  the 
waters  of  the  tiny  harbour  dimpled  and  glittered.  As  the 
two  men  settled  themselves  among  their  cushions,  faces  and 
forms  showed  the  difference  a  single  generation  may  bring 
about. 

Ion's  graceful  figure  lay  with  the  ease  of  a  fine  animal 
at  rest.  Every  muscle  was  in  training,  and  therefore  per- 
fectly controlled.  Where  his  tunic  showed  any  portion  of 
the  nude  form,  the  lines  were  a  delight  to  the  eye.  The 
skin  was  brown  and  firm.  The  face  was  fair,  with  the 
delicacy  of  feature  he  held  from  his  mother  and  her  higher- 
born  race.  The  refinements  of  Ion's  life  and  thought,  and 
his  larger  experience  of  the  polite  world  had  given  to  the 
young  man's  whole  bearing,  face,  and  figure  that  note  of  a 
finished  completeness  the  greater  sculptors  had  imitated  and 
captured,  in  their  presentment  of  the  more  ideal  types. 

Beside  this  sleek,  blooming  perfection  of  manhood,  Crates' 
rugged  form  and  lined  face  seemed  doubly  rough  and  un- 
couth. All  the  hardships  of  a  long  and  ardous  life  were 
written  in  his  passion-worked  features  and  in  that  close  net- 
work of  wrinkles. 

The  crown  of  his  successful  career  was  this  dear  Ion. 

As  he  now  scanned  the  beautiful  face  and  the  perfect 
outlines,  Crates  heaved  a  deep  sigh  of  gratified  content. 
Few  fathers  could  thus  behold,  in  living  forces,  success  thus 
crowned. 

Ion  was  watching  Crates  with   an  amused  smile.     He 


A  BREAKFAST  AT  THE  PIR^US  87 

would  leave  the  bad  news  till  the  very  last  —  till  the  time 
came  for  the  guests  to  come  down  from  Athens  —  then  his 
father  would  have  the  less  time  to  mourn.  Meanwhile  he 
would  put  the  question  —  he  must  know  all  there  was  to 
be  learned  about  the  "  Wonder  "  before  the  inquisitive  Glau- 
cus  came. 

"  By  the  way,  father,  shall  you  go  this  year  to  Corinth, 
as  usual  —  on  your  way  to  the  Games,  or  do  you  go  direct 
from  here,  by  sea?  " 

"  Oh-h,  I  go  to  Nirias,  as  I  always  do,"  Crates  replied, 
unsuspectly. 

"  His  wife  is  dead  I  hear,"  Ion  said,  dryly. 

Crates  nodded.  "  A  year  since.  But  he  has  replaced 
her."  Crates'  voice  had  a  touch  of  scorn  in  it. 

Ion  lifted  his  brows,  but  he  managed  to  keep  his  face  un- 
moved. 

"Already?  He  must  have  mourned  her  deeply!"  Ion 
laughed  —  middle-aged  passions  amused  him.  « 

"  His  grief  must  indeed  have  been  profound.  Her  suc- 
cessor is  or  was  —  for  he  freed  her  —  a  slave.  She  is  a 
great  beauty  —  hem  —  and  has  many  talents,  I  hear  "  and 
Crates  looked  the  picture  of  innocence,  as  he  sent  his  eyes 
adrift,  over  the  sunlit  plain. 

Ion  gave  his  father  a  look  of  admiration  —  he  had  never 
before  seen  him  play  a  part  with  greater  finish.  Then  he 
found  the  scene  too  rich  in  mirth  —  he  really  must  have  his 
revenge. 

"  Hem  —  did  I  not  hear  something  of  your  being  in  the 
company  of  two  elderly  men,  and  with  you  was  there  not 
a  girl  of  amazing  lovliness?  Father,  father!  at  your  age 
—  to  be  seen  in  the  society  of  hetaerae !  —  and  never  to 
breath  a  word !  "  and  in  his  delight  at  seeing  his  father's 
sudden  start  of  affright  —  his  crimson  face,  his  hands  fever- 
ishly working  —  Ion  fairly  howled  with  joy. 


88  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

His  laughter  was  soon  checked,  however,  for  the  crunch- 
ing of  wheels  on  the  carriage  road  brought  both  men  to  a 
startled  upright. 

"  Your  friends,"  said  Crates,  with  a  look  of  immense  re- 
lief. 

But  Ion  had  caught  his  arm,  and  there  was  a  look  in  the 
lifted  eyes  that  had  an  arresting  alarm.  Crates  bent  over 
his  son.  "  What  is  it,  my  son?  " 

"  Before  you  go  forth  to  meet  them,  I  must  tell  you  some 

bad  news." 

"  Out  with  it,  don't  torture  me !  "  Crates  cried,  his  voice 
roughened  to  the  peasant  tone  to  which  it  reverted  in  mo- 
ments of  passion. 

Then  Ion  told  him. 

Crates  bore  the  dreadful  news  better  than  Ion  could  have 
hoped. 

Great  merchants  become  great  only  by  meeting  disaster 
with  unflinching  front.  Never  Ion  had  seen  his  father 
straighten  himself  to  as  proud  an  upright,  never  had  he  seen 
his  experienced  merchantile  faculties  working  as  quickly,  as 
ingeniously.  Ion  felt  a  child  before  these  trained  forces  — 
before  this  will  of  iron,  that  rose  to  meet  the  emergency 
with  such  proud  assurance. 

"You  must  go,  and  at  once,  to  the  farm  —  when  had 
you  thought  of  starting?  and  begin  the  training  of  a  fresh 
stallion  at  once  —  and,  if  necessary,  have  that  trainer  we  saw 
last  year  at  Delphi  —  send  for  him,  we  must  leave  nothing 
to  chance '."and  though  Crates  spoke  with  passion-wrought 
intensity,  Ion  felt,  as  never  before  his  father's  power  of 
self-command  and  of  his  power  to  command  others. 

"  Hush-h,  I  hear  them  already,  in  the  vestibule,"  whis- 
pered Crates,  huskily,  as  he  helped  Ion  to  a  quick  upright. 

Both  hurried  down  the  peristyle  to  greet  the  group  of 
young  men  who  were  already  in  the  hands  of  the  slaves,  at 


A  BREAKFAST  AT  THE  PIRAEUS  89 

the  small  room  opening  into  the  vestibule.  As  his  father 
joined  the  gay  group,  Ion  was  secretly  pleased  to  see  that 
Crates  was  entirely  at  his  ease.  It  was  the  first  time  Ion 
had  asked  these  young  aristocrats  to  his  father's  house.  He 
had  feared  both  their  ridicule  of  his  Piraean  parent,  and 
their  scorn  of  Crates'  simple  manners. 

Crates  greeted  his  guests  with  perfect  courtesy.  Con- 
scious though  he  was  that  the  very  poorest  of  them  con- 
sidered it  a  condescension  to  have  come  at  all,  Crates'  native 
dignity  stood  him  in  good  stead.  He  was  neither  effusively 
cordial  nor  was  he  lacking  in  hospitable  ardour. 

Hosts  and  guests  strolled,  at  first,  in  groups  of  twos  and 
threes,  about  the  shaded  court.  There  were  all  Crates' 
famous  statues  to  be  examined. 

These  excited  much  enthusiasm.  Glaucus  forgot  to  lisp, 
as  he  stood  before  the  tiny  Apollo ;  Ariston's  expressive  face 
shone  with  joy,  as  he  asked  Crates  question  after  question, 
as  to  just  where  he  heard  of  as  perfect  a  work  of  art,  and 
to  assure  the  pleased  merchant  that,  of  all  the  smaller 
statues  Phidias  had  left,  none  he  had  ever  seen  surpassed  this 
truly  divine  Apollo. 

Such  agreeable  compliments  put  every  one  at  their  ease. 
The  tour  of  the  peristyle  was  made  to  further  appreciative, 
critical  praise.  Statues,  paintings,  and  tapestries  were 
passed  in  review.  A  brilliant  picture  the  sauntering  groups 
made,  as  the  young  men  trailed  their  sandalled  feet,  the 
gold  and  silver  thongs  emitting  gleams  of  light,  the  bared 
legs  and  arms  showing  the  flexible  muscles  moving  freely 
beneath  the  skin,  and  the  animated,  spirited  Athenian  faces 
aglow  with  the  pleasure  of  confronting  rare  works  of  art. 

Timoleon  walked  beside  Ion.  Suddenly,  he  turned  to 
him,  as  though  the  thought  had  just  struck  him. 

"  By-the-way,  Ion,  I  believe  —  if  my  eyes  saw  true  —  that 
both  Alcibiades  and  Socrates  are  on  their  way  thither.  We 


90  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

passed  them  close  to  the  theatre.  They  were  in  such  deep 
talk,  they  neither  saw  us  nor  did  they  hear  our  greeting. 
But  I  feel  almost  sure  they  are  bent  on  bringing  you,  Sir, 
their  company." 

It  would  not  have  been  Timoleon  had  not  his  eyes 
twinkled  with  secret  malice.  He  looked  with  all  his  might, 
from  father  to  son.  He  hoped  to  discern  in  one  if  not 
both,  some  evidence  of  annoyance. 

Crates'  face  gave  Timoleon  the  surprise  of  complete  mas- 
tery of  his  feeling.  One  might  have  thought  the  informa- 
tion brought  him  entire  satisfaction.  For  he  cried  out,  as  he 
led  the  way  to  the  vestibule  and  onwards,  to  the  open  porch. 
— "  Then  if  such  distinguished  guests  be  indeed  come  to  hon- 
our us,  I  must  go  forth  to  meet  them."  And  he  pushed  his 
way  quickly  to  the  very  edge  of  the  porch. 

Ion  shot  a  glance  of  triumph  at  Timoleon.  His  father 
might  be  a  ship-merchant  and  low-born,  but  at  least  his 
manners  were  equal,  in  courtesy  and  distinction,  to  those  of 
any  Athenian  noble. 

From  the  porch  the  waiting  group  discerned  the  figures 
of  two  pedestrians.  The  sun  was  pouring  its  noon  rays  on 
the  two  bared  heads.  The  moving  shapes  were  walking 
'with  the  slow,  halting  steps  of  those  in  deep  talk.  Both 
faces  were  bent  groundwards.  The  stouter,  more  slovenly- 
gaited  figure  now  stopped  to  make  an  eloquent,  impassioned 
gesture,  now  resumed  its  progress  to  move  on  —  still  talking. 

"  Ten  drachmae  to  an  obol  Socrates  is  telling  Alcibiades 
his  Voice  has  spoken,"  cried  out  Glaucus,  with  irreverent 
gayety. 

"  Done,"  responded  Timoleon.  "  I  bet  he  is  still  dis- 
coursing about '  how  best  to  manage  wives.'  " 

A  general  laugh  greeted  Timoleon's  witticism.  Then 
the  group  waited,  in  silence.  The  slow-moving  pair  were 
now  drifting  upwards. 


A  BREAKFAST  AT  THE  PIR^US  91 

Crates'  welcome  was  perfect.  No  one  would  have  sus- 
pected the  illustrious  visitors  were  uninvited  guests  —  and 
that  neither  of  them  were  favourites  of  the  clever  Pirasan. 
He  himself  led  them  to  the  retiring  room;  he  ordered  a 
fresh  festival  robe  for  Socrates,  and  implored  Alcibiades  to 
refresh  himself  with  a  bath  —  or  the  barber  —  or  both. 
The  feast  could  be  kept  waiting. 

With  Alcibiades'  advent  came  heightened  spirits.  The 
great  leader  was  himself  in  the  very  best  of  humour.  The 
long  walk  had  given  tonic  to  his  muscles.  Socrates  —  whom 
he  saw  now  but  seldom  —  had  had  an  inspired  moment. 
Alcibiades  felt  uncommonly  braced  —  mentally  and  phys- 
ically. For  nothing  gave  him  such  a  sense  of  mental  vigour 
as  opposition.  Socrates  had  indeed  been  telling  him  all  the 
dangers  he  foresaw  in  the  Sicilian  expedition.  The  more 
eloquent  he  grew,  the  more  determined  was  Alcibiades  to 
push  on  with  the  venture. 

He  had  had  no  thought  of  coming  to  this  feast.  Neither 
Ion  nor  his  merchant- father  had  seemed  to  him,  as  yet,  of 
sufficient  consequence  to  remember  their  existence.  But  as 
Socrates  had  warmed  to  his  subject  —  as  on  and  on  —  be- 
tween the  Walls,  their  path  had  carried  them,  Alcibiades 
suddenly  felt  the  pangs  of  hunger.  The  freshening  sea 
breezes  told  him  they  were  close  to  the  port.  He  remem- 
bered, with  an  agreeable  start,  Glaucus  and  Timoleon  had 
spoken  of  a  breakfast  to  be  given,  that  very  day,  at  the 
house  of  Crates  —  Ion's  father.  Surely  it  was  they  who  had 
passed  —  but  a  moment  before  —  in  Glaucus'  cart ! 

The  very  thing!  He  and  Socrates  would  push  on.  He 
would  win  that  rich  Crates  to  his  way  of  thinking.  A 
Nicias'  man  —  he  must  be  won  —  and  become  his  —  wholly 
his.  Piraean  gold,  Piraean  sailors  would  be  useful  —  when 
the  Sicilian  expedition  was  ready  to  sail. 

The  morning's  adventures,  indeed,  suited  Alcibiades,  and 


92  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

to  a  turn.  He  was  never  more  simple,  natural,  gracious. 
He  was  all  things  to  Crates  —  talking  art,  finance,  com- 
merce. He  praised  Crates'  collection  of  statues  with  lavish 
effusion.  He  actually  envied  him  his  most  recent  acquisition 
—  that  tiny  Apollo  —  a  truly  exquisite  little  masterpiece, 
with  its  life-like  expressiveness  of  feature  and  its  skin  as 
fluid  as  though  of  true  flesh.  Alcibiades  admired  the  view. 
The  sweep  of  the  plain  towards  Athens  was  glorious,  and 
novel.  From  this  altitude  the  Rock  assumed  a  wholly  new 
and  more  mystical  aspect.  As  for  the  buildings  and  temples 
of  the  Piraeus  —  he  never  came  to  the  Port  but  he  felt  a 
sense  of  pride  in  its  prosperity.  Its  clever  merchants  had 
made  it  the  glory  of  all  Hellas. 

Alcibiades'  chief  and  most  discriminating  praises  were  re- 
served for  the  banqueting  room.  What  hangings!  What 
strange,  mysterious  weavings  and  rich  colours!  Easy  to  see 
here  the  far-reaching  grasp  of  the  clever  merchant  —  with 
his  ships  in  a  hundred  harbours! 

It  was  at  this  point  Crates'  features  visibly  softened. 
His  Eastern  tapestries,  on  which  he  had  spent  a  fortune, 
were  his  pride.  How  could  one  be  insensible  to  such  dis- 
criminating, critical  judgment? 

Crates  filled  Alcibiades'  golden  cup  himself.  He  or- 
dered in  the  dancers  and  flute  players  earlier  than  the  time 
named. 

The  tall  bronze  candelabra;  about  the  room  stood  thick 
as  tree  trunks  in  a  young  forest.  Their  yellow  light  dif- 
fused a  gentle  glow  on  the  youthful  shapes,  now  outstretched 
on  the  inlaid,  cushion-piled  couches.  Below  each  guest 
stood  a  three-legged  table,  bearing  rythons  and  gold  and 
silver  cups.  Naked  boys,  with  garlands  of  roses,  tulips, 
lilies  and  narcissi,  served  delicate  Thracian  and  Chian  wines, 
from  deep  amphorae.  Their  young  arms  were  often  bent 
beneath  their  weight. 


A  BREAKFAST  AT  THE  PIR^US  93 

•» 

Flute  players  in  delicate-hued  tunics,  stood  in  a  corner  of 
the  room;  the  piercing  sweetness  of  their  music  filled  the 
hall,  above  which  the  guests'  voices  rose,  as  the  sea's  mur- 
mur rises  above  larks'  songs.  The  scents  of  the  rich  viands, 
of  the  thick  garlands  hanging  from  the  tragic  to  the  comic 
masks,  along  the  walls,  above  the  tapestries;  the  perfumes 
scattered  ever  and  anon  —  over  guests  and  floors  —  as  slaves 
swept  up  bones  and  fragments,  after  a  certain  number  of 
courses  had  been  passed;  and  the  fitful,  clean-scented  sea- 
breezes,  sweeping  in  through  the  open  door,  made  Crates' 
noon-day  feast  a  long  one. 

Socrates  was  still  purring  on,  persuasively,  to  Ariston  and 
Agesilaus.  They  alone  —  toward  the  end  of  the  feast  — 
were  in  a  fitting  state  to  answer  his  merciless  unending 
questions  —  leading  to  lengthy  if  clear  demonstrations.  Ion 
lay  on  Timoleon's  shoulder.  The  two  were  listening, 
dreamily,  to  the  flute  song.  Timoleon  was  dreaming  of 
fame  —  of  gold! 

And  Ion  was  seeing  a  golden-hued  vision.  He  was  mount- 
ing the  steps  of  the  Temple  —  at  Olympia.  The  crown  of 
wild  olives  was  shining  —  lustrous  and  green  —  upon  the 
golden  table.  '  Twas  the  "  Wonder  "  who  held  it  toward 
him! 

Crates  had  learned  at  last,  not  the  secret,  but  the  power  of 
Alcibiades'  charm.  For  he  had  promised  the  most  irresistible 
of  men  to  give  his  son  Ion  a  war-trireme,  the  finest  the  ship- 
builders could  construct,  in  case  the  Sicilian  invasion  ever 
came  off.  When  he  made  the  promise  Alcibiades'  kingly 
head  had  sunk  upon  the  pillows.  He  was  smiling  as  though 
Sicily  were  already  won. 

For  Crates'  Chian  wines  were  of  potent  strength.  And 
during  the  festival  of  Dionysia,  'twas  a  crime  to  be  sober. 


BOOK  ,11  —  OLYMPIA 

Chapter     X 

A    FATEFUL   DECISION 

FOUR  months  later  Maia  lay  among  her  cushions,  under  the 
recessed  porch  of  Nirias'  house.  The  heat  of  the  night  had 
driven  the  inmates  of  the  household  to  seek  the  cool,  on  the 
open  terrace.  Maia  had  chosen  to  have  her  couch  placed 
within  the  arcaded  porch.  At  least  there  she  could  breathe 
—  whether  there  was  air  or  no  air,  Nirias  was  not  at  her 
elbow  —  he  and  Crates  were  seated  beyond  —  their  klinai 
were  placed  beneath  the  moon's  warm  light. 

The  gardens,  terraces,  and  the  colonnades  —  so  built  as 
to  give  shade,  at  any  hour;  the  cooling  fountains,  the  deep 
green  bowers,  and  the  over-decorated  house  —  all  these  lay, 
like  a  city  within  a  city,  on  the  mighty  knees  of  the  Acro- 
Corinthus. 

Like  Corinth  itself,  and  the  outlying  world  of  sea  and 
mountain,  the  great  house,  amid  its  gardens,  lay  magic- 
smitten.  The  whole  world  was  turned  to  softened  gold. 

Yet  Maia,  upon  her  silken  pillows,  and  beneath  her  rare 
statues,  knew  herself  to  be  among  the  most  miserable  of 
mortals.  The  surprises  of  her  fate  had  begun  for  her  after 
the  journey  to  Athens. 

Athens'  keen-sighted,  beauty-loving  eyes  had  been  Nirias' 
awakening. 

Those  glad,  gratified  shouts  of  "The  Incomparable" 
"  The  Corinthian  Wonder !  "  "  Aphrodite's  very  self !  "  how 

94. 


A  FATEFUL  DECISION  95 

they  had  rung  in  the  wool-merchant's  ears!  Their  true 
meaning  had  been  most  mistakenly  explained  to  him  by 
Manes. 

These  cries,  that  had  maddened  Maia  to  wild  unrest  for 
fresh  hearing  of  such  rapture-awakening  shouts,  in  Nirias' 
darker  chambered  soul  had  loosed  the  demons  of  distrust. 

If  the  mere  sight  of  Maia,  in  a  foreign  city,  Nirias  had 
argued,  with  the  lover's  irresistible,  convincing  logic,  could 
provoke  such  amazing,  such  universal  homage,  clearly  he 
who  was  lucky  enough  to  have  discovered  such  a  paragon, 
must  look  well  to  security  of  possession.  Such  a  master- 
piece of  perfection,  like  a  costly  statue,  must  be  carefully 
housed  and  hidden. 

Nirias,  therefore,   took  to  the  business  of  wall-building. 

The  splendid  house  to  which  he  had  brought  Maia  had 
walls  sufficiently  high  to  lull  even  the  most  jealous  of  lover's 
fears.  It  was  in  the  erection  of  the  more  invisible  walls  to 
protect  his  divinity,  that  gave  the  richest  man  in  Corinth 
sleepless  nights. 

Nirias  had  changed  his  whole  life.  Did  Maia  plead  for  a 
change,  Nirias  promptly  developed  a  quick  illness.  His 
pride  in  banquets  was  gone:  who  knew  when  some  younger 
friend  might  not  rob  him  of  his  treasure?  Did  Maia  find  a 
friend  among  the  rare,  elderly  "  companions "  who  came 
to  Nirias'  solemn  feasts,  Nirias'  suspicions  made  pleasant 
intercourse  impossible.  In  every  embroidered  chiton  his 
jealousy  scented  a  hidden  love-token:  in  the  verses  Maia 
sang  to  some  poet-friend,  a  message  to  an  unknown  lover. 
Walls  higher  than  those  that  encircled  Corinth,  or  any  house 
within  Corinth's  forty-stadia  circlet  was  an  old  man's  jeal- 
ousy. 

"The  sentinels  of  argus-eyed  suspicion,"  Maia  said,  and 
not  once,  but  a  thousand  times,  in  her  bitter  moods,  "  such 
sentinels  out-pace  all  the  watchers  on  the  city's  heights !  " 


96  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

And  Maia  —  what  held  her  captive  to  this  life  she  had 
grown  to  loathe? 

It  was  neither  Nirias'  great  house,  nor  his  avenues  of 
trees  and  costly  statues;  nor  the  wealth  with  which,  in  jewels 
and  splendid  raiment,  he  wooed  her  daily,  thicker  than  the 
golden  shower  through  which  Jupiter  had  won  yielding 
Danae. 

Mere  gold  could  not  tempt  Maia.  It  was  none  of  these 
that  held  her  fast.  As  she  knew  full  well,  beyond  the 
gate  all  Corinth  —  all  Athens  would  woo  her  thus.  Dozens 
of  lovers,  old  and  young,  with  hands  ready  to  shower  as 
pattering  a  golden  rain  as  Nirias  could  fling,  awaited  such  as 
she  with  eager,  lustful  eyes.  Hellas  was  rich  in  rich  lovers. 
Maia  knew  the  world  and  her  city.  Yet  neither  her  knowl- 
edge, nor  her  wit,  nor  her  now  unused  talents,  could  free 
her.  She  was  bound,  she  was  shackled  by  a  something 
within  that  would  not  let  her  go.  The  iron  sense  of  grati- 
tude, of  duty  held  her  fast. 

Aye  —  duty !  Slave  though  she  had  been ;  and  slave  to  a 
chorus-master;  mistress  though  she  was  now,  and  to  a  man 
old  enough  to  be  her  father;  yet  was  Maia's  soul  greater, 
more  potent  to  command  and  shape  her  fate  than  all  outward 
circumstance.  The  fetters  that  bound  her  fast  were  forged 
of  the  spiritual  forces.  The  something  divine  in  Maia 
would  not  let  her  be  false  to  the  singing  voices,  that  rang 
their  clarion-tongued  chorus  within. 

Nirias  had  freed  her ;  Nirias  loved  her ;  Nirias,  now  aging 
fast,  was  a  sick  man ;  and,  for  all  the  multitude  of  his  slaves 
and  possessions,  he  was  alone  in  his  great  house. 

This  daily  prayer  of  Nirias  to  the  woman  he  had  grown 
to  worship,  for  common  human  helpfulness,  for  sympathy, 
for  companionship,  this  prayer  it  was,  unconscious,  inaudi- 
ble, that  was  as  fire  to  incense.  Maia's  soul,  now  touched, 
and  for  the  first  time  by  the  flame  of  the  mighty  liberator 


A  FATEFUL  DECISION  97 

—  offered  up  its  sacrificial  fragrance.  Had  she  but  known 
its  source,  this  puissant  instinct  of  self-sacrifice  might  have 
been  less  difficult  to  obey.  Long  lines  of  Athenian  soldiers, 
generals,  and  admirals  had  listened  to  the  same  still  small 
voice.  When  duty,  when  country  called,  they  had  rushed 
to  death  as  to  a  banquet.  Heroic  mothers  and  wives,  in 
Athens'  greater  days,  had  steadied  trembling  hands  to  buckle 
shields  on  shapely  frames  that  would  return  upon  the  sculp- 
tured discs,  rigid  and  all  ivory  white.  Maia,  in  her  turn, 
was  feeling  the  iron  hand  of  fateful  inheritance. 

In  Nirias'  worst  attacks  of  illness  Maia  proved  the 
strength  of  the  tie  of  gratitude  that  bound  her  to  him.  It 
was  in  the  dulled  round  of  their  daily  life  —  in  the  dreary 
waste  of  days,  unstirred  by  pleasure  or  the  hope  of  change, 
that  Maia  proved,  in  turn,  the  mortal  part  of  her  was  still 
in  violence  —  ungoverned,  rebellious,  straining  at  its  leash, 

Instead  of  impassioned  outburst,  Maia  now  turned,  rest- 
lessly upon  her  couch.  She  would  read,  she  would  try  to 
stifle  thought  by  listening  to  the  music  of  some  poet's  verse. 

As  though  he  divined  her  wish,  Mago,  her  favorite  slave, 
bent  low.  Taking  a  certain  roll  from  the  case  standing 
directly  below  the  klinai,  he  handed  her  the  scroll. 

Maia  smiled.  It  was  the  very  poet,  the  very  verse  she  had 
wished  to  read.  The  Persian  really  must  have  double 
sight ! 

Below  her  breath,  she  began,  presently,  to  half  chant  half 
sing  the  lines. 

The  scroll  dropped  from  her  hand. 

Ah  —  the  bliss-evoking  words!  At  least  this  reading 
about  life  and  love  was  better  than  the  dull,  brutal-witted 
acceptance  of  her  lot.  With  Sappho,  with  Alcaeus,  with 
Simonides, —  she  could  look  through  her  prison  bars,  she 
could  see  Heaven  shining  beyond.  The  poets  breathed  hope. 
As  surely  —  life  —  the  mere  act  of  living  brought  change. 


98  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Some  day  —  in  some  way  —  the  "  happy  he  who  sees  thee  " 
would  appear. 

Smiling  at  the  mere  rapture  the  vision  evoked,  Maia 
lifted  her  mirror.  The  tiny  miracle  of  the  goldsmith's  art 
—  with  its  frame  of  Cupids  and  arm-entwined  Graces  — 
this  her  disc  of  satiny  bronze  sent  back  the  picture  she  knew 
she  should  find.  Yes  "  Minerva's  hands  "  were  indeed  no 
shapelier,  no  whiter;  the  jewels  of  her  chiton  rose  and  fell 
above  "  the  breasts  divine ;  "  the  ankles,  shining  fair  as  tinted 
roses,  lay  below  the  close,  embroidered  hem.  Slowly  she 
drew  the  mirror,  now  upward,  now  downward,  with  loving 
satisfaction,  along  the  full  length  of  her  perfect  shape.  As 
she  scanned  each  outline  of  the  moulded  form,  and  knew  it 
all  unwon,  Maia's  mood  changed. 

With  passionate  sense  of  defeat,  of  desperation,  Maia 
crashed  the  mirror  upon  the  floor. 

"Aye!  better  blows  and  curses!  —  better  endless  toil  and 
such  weariness  as  made  one  stumble  —  drunk  with  over- 
work—  to  bed,  than  such  a  life  as  this!"  she  burst  forth, 
as  the  mirror  rang  upon  the  concrete. 

"  Hush-h  Lady !  —  the  slaves  listen,"  whispered  Mago. 
His  voice  was  in  her  ear.  He  had  bent,  as  though  merely  to 
recover  the  dropped  bronze  disc. 

Maia  lifted  her  head.  Impatiently  she  turned  her  eyes, 
backwards,  to  where  the  fan-wielders  stood.  Hands  and 
arms  motionless  now  —  with  eager,  glistening  eyes  the  faces 
were  bent  forwards.  The  air  about  her,  Maia  noted,  was, 
indeed,  suddenly  stifling. 

Maia's  cry  rang  out  with  stinging  accents. 

"Don't  drop  your  fan  —  you  beasts!  How  dare  you? 
I'll  have  you  both  soundly  thrashed  —  you  lazy  hounds,  if 
you  fail  to  stir  the  air  with  a  better  will !  " 

The  slaves  started,  as  though  they  already  felt  the  prick 
of  the  threatened  lash.  The  creak  of  the  great  fans  was 


A  FATEFUL  DECISION  99 

once  again  the  one  rythmical  persistent  motion  in  the  night's 
many-tongued  voice.  The  mistress's  threat  was  no  idle  one, 
as  both  knew  well. 

At  the  sound  of  Maia's  angry  threat,  Nirias'  voice  had 
suddenly  stopped  its  droning.  Then  he  called  out  through 
the  golden  air :  "  Maia,  beloved,"  he  quavered.  His 
tones  broke  with  the  tremor  of  a  fatigued  instrument  "  Is 
aught  the  matter?  Is  the  heat  too  much  for  thee?  Wilt 
thou  have  the  sherbet  freshly  iced  ?  " 

In  spite  of  the  heat,  Maia  shivered.  That  one  word 
"  beloved  "  in  those  broken,  tremulous  tones  —  what  a  hid- 
eous mockery!  Even  as  the  slaves  behind  her  had  seemed 
to  hear  the  whistle  of  the  lash,  she  too  must  answer  to  the 
stroke  of  her  whip. 

"  No-o  "  she  finally  ejaculated.  "  I  praise  your  remark 
O  Nirias  —  but  T  am  not  thirsty;"  Unable  to  hold  in  the 
full  measure  of  her  irritation,  she  snapped  forth  — "  I  am 
no  man  —  I  cannot  be  always  drinking." 

Nirias  laughed  —  but  not  so  loud  as  Crates.  What  a 
spirited  creature  it  was !  "  the  latter  thought.  He  might 
disapprove  of  Maia's  effect  on  his  friend,  but,  secretly,  he 
confessed  his  admiration.  He  bent  his  mind  once  more  to 
listen,  in  patience,  to  Nirias'  unending  recital  of  his  ail- 
ments. 

"  Yes  —  it  was  indeed  a  pity  you  could  not  have  stopped 
longer.  Those  cures — "  he  went  on,  with  kindly  courtesy. 
Crates,  saying  this  in  an  absent  tone  of  voice,  wondered 
how  much  longer  Nirias  could  go  on  talking  about  doctors 
and  diseases. 

"Cures  —  cures!"  Nirias  now  cried  out,  in  his  most 
querulous,  agitated  tone,  as  he  lifted  his  head  from  his  cush- 
ions. "O  dear  man  —  what  have  I  not  tried?  I've 
dragged  myself  and  Maia  —  the  dear  creature  —  from  tem- 
ple to  temple.  I've  had  hundreds  of  priests  pray  for  me, 


ioo         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

I've  soaked  in  hot  and  cold  baths  —  even  the  Castilian  spring 
failed  to  work  its  promised  miracle.  I've  bribed  the  very 
g0(js  —  and  yet  here  am  I  —  just  where  I  was  three  months 
ago !  "  And  Nirias,  with  despairing  groan  flung  himself 
anew  upon  his  pillows. 

Presently  he  lifted  his  head.  A  freshened  tone  rang  out. 
"  Yet  —  O  Crates  —  I  am  bound  to  except  one  great  cure. 
At  Epidaurus  the  healing  god  still  works  great  miracles  at 
his  shrine !  "  Nirias  now  bent  forward  eagerly,  with  pas- 
sionate fervour.  Maia  could  see  his  hands  working  fever- 
ishly in  the  golden  light.  He  was,  indeed,  all  eagerness 
now.  Epidaurus  was  his  last  craze  —  his  one  strong-hold 
left  amid  the  ruins  of  his  medicinal  belief.  "  Crates,  I  tell 
thee  the  god  is  every  inch  a  god.  Such  wonders  as  he  per- 
forms! The  lame,  after  seeing  him  —  in  the  vision  — 
walk;  the  dumb  speak;  the  paralyzed  leave  the  stones  they 
are  able  to  carry,  after  their  cure  —  behind  them  —  as  proof." 

"  Yes !  Yes !  "  impatiently  interrupted  Crates.  A  prac- 
tical man,  he  had  somewhat  outgrown  his  belief  in  miracles. 
He  had  known  —  in  his  time  —  too  many  priests.  "I've 
heard  the  tales.  But  surely,  Nirias,  you  do  not  swallow 
that  absurdity  about  the  Temple  dogs  licking  sight  into 
blind  eyes  ?  " 

"  Man  alive  —  but  I've  verified  the  truth  of  the  mir- 
acle! "  almost  screamed  Nirias,  his  excitement  working  him 
into  a  sort  of  frenzy.  To  prove  to  sceptics  the  healing 
powers  of  his  newest  god  was  his  latest  —  almost  his  sole 
emotional  ecstacy.  "  The  very  day  after  that  famous  vision 
—  after  the  lad  had  slept  in  the  hall  —  and  the  sacred  dog 
had  licked  his  eyelids  —  the  boy  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  — 
as  clearly  as  you  or  I.  Why  —  I  talked  with  him,  man  — 
did  I  not,  Maia?"  Nirias  called  backwards,  excitedly,  hop- 
ing to  win  corrobative  testimony  from  Maia. 


A  FATEFUL  DECISION  101 

"You  had  never  laid  eyes  upon  the  boy  before  that," 
Maia's  cool  voice  answered  through  the  still  air.  "  Npt  un- 
til the  moment  when  his  eyes  were,  indeed,  as  good  as  any- 
one's—" 

Nirias  sank  among  his  pillows,  groaning  as  he  sank. 
"  Alas !  —  Maia  is  also  a  sceptic.  She  knows  all  the  good 
the  dear  god  has  done  me  —  yet,  like  Ambrosia  of  Athens 
who,  before  her  cure,  was  also  a  scoffer — " 

"  Well,  I  only  hope  Ambrosia's  new  eye  is  as  pretty  as  the 
votive  silver  pig  she  hung  alongside  of  the  picture  of  her 
restored  organ.  I  never  saw  a  prettier  pig!  "  laughed  Maia, 
the  memories  of  her  Epidaurian  experiences  swarming,  amus- 
ingly before  her.  She  went  on,  sending  her  lovely  voice 
into  the  still  night.  Its  tones  rang  out,  shaken  by  mirth. 
"  What  Nirias  has  not  told  you,  O  Crates !  is  the  latest 
miraculous  cure  —  the  new  salve  —  for  baldness,"  Maia 
somewhat  cruelly  went  on  to  say. 

"  Oh-h  —  Maia  love !  "  implored  Nirias. 

"  Heraeus  of  Mytelene,"  Maia's  voice  bubbled  on,  "  having 
lost  his  hair,  went  up  to  the  hall,  praying  for  help.  The 
god  —  in  the  same  old  vision  —  annointed  his  head  —  and 
behold !  the  next  day  —  his  hair  stood  out  on  all  sides  —  a 
crop  thicker  than  his  beard.  Ah  ha !  " 

Even  Nirias  could  not  help  echoing  Maia's  melodious 
laughter.  It  was  long  since  he  had  heard  it  ring  with  as 
full  and  hearty  a  note. 

"  Well  —  and  did  you  try  this  marvellous  salve  on  — " 
Crates'  eyes,  still  small  with  the  laughter  that  shook  him, 
covered  his  old  friend's  head  —  "on  Nirias?" 

"  Ah  indeed,  and  we  did !  —  and  most  thoroughly  —  in  the 
same  dear  old  vision.  But,  later  —  without  heavenly  assist- 
ance —  in  broad  daylight  —  and,  since  leaving  the  temple  — 
Mago  and  even  I  —  have  each  one  and  all  —  we've  tried  our 


102         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

strength  and  the  salve  —  on  the  dear  bald  spots  —  and  see ! 

how   grandly   they   shine   now  —  as    the   moon    strikes! 

Clear  as  silver  discs!  " 

There  was  a  general  laugh.  Even  the  fans  shook,  the 
slaves'  eyes  having  turned  to  note  their  master's  hairless 
crown. 

Nirias  joined  in  the  laughter.  But  he  managed,  with  skil- 
ful tact,  to  change  the  subject,  and  quickly. 

"Speaking  of  salves  —  that  reminds  me.  If  Pollux 
should  go  lame  again  I  have  a  tonic  in  a  hundred  — " 

Crates  started.  He  was  touched  on  his  tenderest  point. 
Maia  laughed  anew  to  see  how  he  had  straightened,  in- 
dignantly, to  quick  upright,  how  passion-worked  was  his 
strong-featured  face. 

"  Pollux  going  lame  again !  Why,  dear  old  man,  he  is 
now  the  leader  of  the  team  —  Ion  writes  — " 

"  Ion  "  "  The  Quadrega  "  "  Pollux."  Oh,  Ion !  Ion !  Ion ! 
how  tiresome !  "  Maia  closed  her  eyes.  Crates  was  as  weari- 
some, when  he  went  on  about  his  paragon  of  a  son  as  was 
Nirias  when  he  talked  about  miracles.  One  would  think 
this  Ion  a  veritable  Apollo,  curls,  lyre,  beauty,  and  all. 
Doubtless  he  would  turn  out  to  be  as  plain  as  Silenus. 
Crates,  for  a  clever  man,  he  also,  could  be  stupid  enough. 
He  had  come  solely  to  Corinth,  apparently,  to  talk  about 
Pollux's  miraculous  straight  legs,  the  wonders  of  the  stal- 
lion's cure  —  the  speed  of  the  animal  —  and  how  fine  Ion's 
marvel  of  a  jockey  had  trained  down  —  without  losing 
strength!  Never  had  Olympia  seen  such  a  "four!" 
Never  before  had  such  a  car  been  sent  to  the  Hippodrome! 
Never  before  were  groom  and  horses  in  such  close  harmony 
of  obedence  and  mastery!  Never  this  —  never  that  —  it 
was  as  boresome  a  tale  as  Nirias'  diseases ! 

With  a  groan,  Maia  flung  herself,  with  passionate  im- 
patience against  her  pillows. 

Corinth's  deep,  melodious  voice  now  filled  the  midnight. 


A  FATEFUL  DECISION  103 

Maia  caught  snatches  of  song  and  laughter  wafted  up 
from  the  house  below  their  own.  Stirring  notes  of  flute  and 
trumpet  rang  out;  a  rush  of  quickened  motion  —  of  swirling 
draperies.  Ah!  there  was  dancing  as  well!  Their  nearest 
neighbour  was  giving  a  banquet.  The  shrilly  sweet  notes 
of  a  Phrygian  flute  sent  Maia's  nerves  to  responsive  quiver- 
ing. 

The  music  suddenly  stopped.  A  chorus  of  applause  filled 
the  silence.  Then,  nearer  still  from  the  other  side  of  the 
tall  walls  —  came  a  bubble  of  soft-cooing  laughter ;  —  next  a 
man's  tones,  deep,  eager-voiced  —  then  a  long  silence.  One 
could  almost  hear  the  hot  pulses  beating.  A  cry  and  con- 
fused voices  —  the  couple  had  been  stopped  by  others. 
"Come!  no  loitering!  On!  we  must  lose  no  time  —  the 
night  is  all  too  short ! "  the  voices  chorused.  The  gay 
clamour  grew  faint  and  ever  fainter,  and  was  lost,  like  a 
chorus  winding  through  a  city's  streets. 

Aphrodite's  priestesses  were  leading  their  lovers  up  the 
steep  hillside.  The  green  airy  bowers  aloft,  on  Acro-Cor- 
inthus,  would  indeed  soon  be  full. 

Maia  grew  more  and  more  restless.  Yet  there  was  not 
even  a  mirror  to  send  headlong,  to  ease  her  violence !  Once 
more  she  moaned  — 

"  At  least  —  even  with  Manes  —  slave  though  I  was  —  I 
saw  life!  I  was  part  of  a  living,  breathing,  quickened 
world !  "  Maia  felt  the  sob  rising  in  her  throat.  "  Ah !  me 
miserable!  Will  it  ever  end?  Shall  I  have  to  go  on  — 
year  after  year  —  listening  to  old  men's  talk  —  to  Nirias' 
feeble  jokes?  " 

And  Crates'  and  Nirias'  voices  droned  on. 

Like  an  antiphonal,  Maia's  wretchedness  and  misery  rang 
up  its  wailing  tones,  to  be  answered  by  the  sound  of  such 
dull  dreary  talk  as  "  how,  unless  a  physician  has  had  Dor- 
ian training —  I  find  — " 

Maia  closed  her  eyes.     Would  sleep  release  her  from  the 


104         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

torment  of  this  wild   unrest  —  this  unsupportable   discon- 
tent? 

For  long  it  seemed  to  her,  the  city's  festival  notes  rang 
on,  the  flutes  from  the  near  banquet  sounded  gay  and  ever 
gayer  strains  —  when,  as  though  'a  god,  out  of  the  warm 
skies,  had  alighted,  to  touch  her  dead  soul  to  quick  life,  Maia 
felt  her  nerves  quiver,  her  ears  throb,  her  hands  chilled. 

Crates'  tones  had  been  the  miracle  worker.  His  powerful 
voice  was  raised.  Urging,  pleading,  indignant,  his  words 
came  clear  —  distinct  — 

"Really  Nirias  —  I  hold  it  to  be  unfriendly!  I  never 
dreamed  of  such  desertion !  Not  to  see  Ion  run  —  not  to  be 
there  to  support  me  —  in  such  an  hour !  Your  absence  will 
rob  the  victory  of  half  its  rapture.  Indeed  —  believe  me  — 
this  is  an  unlooked-for  trial !  " 

Never  had  Maia  heard  Crates  speak  as  passionately.  For 
Crates  was  indeed  experiencing  a  severe  trial.  He  was  being 
touched  in  a  vital  spot.  Nirias  must,  indeed,  be  made  to 
go!  For  long  years  he,  Crates,  had  gone  to  Olympia,  for 
nothing,  as  guest  aboard  Nirias'  ships. 

Maia  caught  her  breath.  Suppose  Nirias  should  actually 
be  worked  upon  by  so  much  display  of  feeling?  Suppose 
him  to  yield  —  and  go  —  as  far  as  Olympia!  What  gift  of 
the  gods  could  be  as  blessed?  Maia  felt  her  head  fairly 
reel  at  the  thought.  To  be  alone  —  to  be  left  free  in  this 
great  house  —  in  the  gardens  —  in  Corinth  —  the  very 
thought  of  such  happiness  turned  Maia's  soul  faint  with  joy. 
She  seemed  to  be  breathing,  already,  the  elastic  air  of  liberty. 

Then  all  hope  died  out.  The  golden  night  was  suddenly 
o'ershadowed.  For  Nirias  was  answering  —  Oh,  she  could 
have  foretold  his  hateful  answer!  He  was  voicing  it  in  his 
most  purring  tones. 

"  For  no  other  man  alive  would  I  go  to  the  lengths  I 
would  for  thee  —  my  life-long  friend.  Such  friendship  as 


A  FATEFUL  DECISION  105 

ours  is  a  holy  thing.  No  sacrifice  is  too  great  to  ask  —  to 
be  given.  But  —  hem!  My  health  —  dear  Crates  —  as 
you  must  see  —  I  am  not  what  I  was.  I  confess  the  jour- 
ney appalls  me.  And  at  Olympia  itself  —  one  needs  strong 
knees  and  a  stout  back." 

"Pooh!  Pooh!"  flouted  Crates.  "You  are  hipped,  Ni- 
rias,  between  your  quacks  and  your  ^Esculapian  cures  you 
have  disease  on  the  brain." 

As  though  she  had  received  a  sign  from  heaven,  Maia 
noiselessly  slipped  from  her  couch.  Crates'  courage  —  his 
daring  to  flout  thus  his  friend's  folly  —  the  magnetism  of  his 
strength  gave  Maia  the  fleet  wings  of  inspiration. 

Even  as  she  drifted  down  the  garden  paths,  she  did  not 
omit  to  lift  up  her  soul  in  prayer.  It  was  a  critical  —  it 
might  prove  the  turning  moment  in  her  fate.  She  needed 
the  god's  help.  "  Dear  Hermes,"  she  whispered  quickly, 
desperately,  "  teach  me  the  right  words  —  give  me  wisdom 
• —  and  thy  altars  shall  be  heaped  with  offerings." 

The  two  men  paused  abruptly  in  their  talk.  The  sud- 
denness of  Maia's  appearance  startled  them.  The  delight 
her  fairness  evoked  kept  them  breathless.  Even  Crates 
felt  his  slow  pulses  stirred.  The  moon's  light  lent  a  some- 
thing celestial  to  this  creature  of  roses  and  gold,  who  stood 
thus  before  them  —  to  this  girl  whose  snows  seemed  tracked 
with  fire.  Even  as  Maia's  embroidered  chiton,  at  her  least 
motion,  shed  stars  of  light  —  so  did  her  radiant  eyes  seem  to 
emit  living  flames.  Never  had  Crates  felt  the  girl's  beauty 
as  now  —  his  quickened  Athenian  eyes  bent  in  homage  be- 
fore her.  He  felt  his  very  breath  indrawn.  She  was  indeed 
a  creature  for  worship.  Luckily  Ion  — 

Before  he  could  finish  the  thought  —  Maia  had  moved. 
She  was  crouching  at  Nirias'  couch.  She  was  wooing  him  to 
yield,  with  caressing  fingers. 

"  Crates  indeed  speaks  golden  truth  —  dear  Nirias.    We 


106         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

are  both  to  blame.     You  are  grown  womanish  and  I  foolish 

—  with  too  much  coddling." 

"  Is  that  your  real  opinion,  my  Maia?  "  asked  Nirias,  in 
a  plaintive  voice.  But  Maia's  nearness  was  too  sweet! 
How  feel  even  sadness  with  that  perfect  face  bending  low? 
"  How  beautiful  thou  art  —  beloved !  The  moon's  light 
makes  thee  glorious!  Is  she  not  a  wonder,  Crates?  Ah-h 

—  yes  —  sweet  —  fan  my  forehead  —  brush  the  loose  hair." 
Maia  stopped  fanning  on  the  instant.     Of  all  moments  to 

have  him  turn  lover!  She  would  administer  a  tonic.  A 
good  wholesome  dose  of  truth  would  bring  him  to  his  senses. 
What  she  had  never  dared  to  say  —  to  urge  —  now  came 
easily  to  her  lips. 

"  Indeed  —  O  Nirias  —  it  is  action  —  a  life  among  men 

—  and  in  the  world  you  most  need,  and  not  more  coddling. 
Indeed,  dear  Nirias,  I  am  troubled  about  you.     You  are 
growing  as  thin  as  a  shade  —  you  who  used  to  be  as  fat  as  a 
copiac     eel.     And     this    heat     is     killing  —  you     need     a 
change — "     Inwardly  Maia  was  breathing  her  quick,  hot 
prayer  — "  Help  me,  O  Hermes  —  send  me  the  right  words 

—  that  I  may  work  the  miracle." 

Hermes  was  in  a  mood  to  live  up  to  his  reputation,  ap- 
parently. Not  only  did  he  inspire  Maia  with  the  best  pos- 
sible words,  to  work  the  fright  she  meant  should  convulse 
Nirias,  but  at  the  very  same  moment  the  cleverest  of  the 
gods  got  /Eolus  to  help  him. 

Up  from  the  gulf  there  suddenly  swept  a  fresh,  breath- 
giving  breeze.  The  cooling  salt  of  the  sea  was  on  its  lip. 
It  swept  the  figures,  and  into  the  breathless  night,  as  though 
it  were  a  living  presence. 

Nirias  lifted  his  heavy  head.  He  smiled,  almost  as  gaily  as 
Maia,  who  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  Ah-h  the  breeze !  the  breeze !  "  she  cried  out  joyously, 
as  she  clapped  glad  hands.  "It  has  come  at  last!  The 


A  FATEFUL  DECISION  107 

gulf  sends  its  healing!  We'll  all  be  alive  once  more  —  in 
no  time.  Ah  —  Nirias  dear  —  if  you  were  really  kind 
you  would  take  us  —  aye  —  even  me  —  out  upon  the  sea! 
Here's  Crates  —  he's  waiting  for  a  ship — and  you  have  a 
dozen  —  lying  at  anchor.  Better  than  all  the  doctors  and 
cures  —  would  be  a  sea  voyage.  See  —  already  you  have  a 
colour  in  your  cheeks !  " 

Maia  swept  her  cool,  caressing  ringers  along  the  faded 
yellows  of  Nirias'  shrunken  skin.  But  Nirias,  with  eyes 
aflame,  had  started  to  his  feet.  He  swept  Maia  aside.  All 
his  fears,  suspicions  —  the  very  demons  of  jealousy  were  let 
loose.  Why  did  Maia  urge  this  journey?  Whom  did  she 
wish  to  see  —  to  meet  ?  Did  she  imagine  for  a  single  in- 
stant she  might  be  left  alone  —  in  Corinth?  What  did 
Crates  intend  by  so  much  urging?  Were  he  and  Maia  in 
conspiracy  ? 

Paling,  flushing,  with  hands  shaken  by  the  violence  of  his 
feeling,  Nirias,  as  he  strode  with  quick,  agitated  step,  up 
and  down  his  scented  terrace  presented  the  spectacle,  to  the 
clever  Piraean  who  watched  him  with  amused,  amazed  eyes, 
the  latter  had  never  expected  to  behold.  But  no  man  may 
be  said  to  know  another,  truly,  until  he  has  seen  him  wrought 
upon  by  love's  distemper. 

Maia,  being  used  to  such  exhibitions,  sat  herself  down  upon 
the  vacant  klinai :  she  calmly  bared  her  throat  to  the  breeze. 
When  Nirias'  fit  of  anger  was  gone,  she  might  find  better  ar- 
gument. 

Hermes,  however,  was  working  silently,  but  surely.  He 
winged  an  inspiration  to  Crates. 

"  Come  —  calm  thyself  —  O  Nirias,"  Crates  cried  out, 
suddenly  to  his  friend.  "  Maia  is  neither  to  be  left  —  un- 
guarded, in  wicked  Corinth  —  nor  yet  is  she  to  wander  upon 
the  high  seas  —  and  we  upon  the  Altis.  I  have  thought  of  a 
plan." 


io8        ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Nirias  eyed  his  friend  suspiciously.  But  he  came  to  a 
rest  upon  his  couch.  Crates,  as  he  unfolded  his  plan,  con- 
tinued to  gaze  in  amazement  at  his  elderly  friend's  suddenly 
swollen  features  —  his  bulging  eyes,  his  distended  cheeks, 
and  the  streaks  of  purple  on  his  yellowing  skin. 

Crates  felt  the  need  of  all  his  tact.  With  Nirias'  idle 
ships  in  Corinthian  ports,  there  was  all  the  more  need  of 
persuasive  eloquence. 

Why  not  take  Maia  with  them?  On  the  voyage  — 
there  could  be  nothing  out  of  the  way,  in  her  being  of  the 
party.  Once  at  the  Elean  Port  —  matters  could  be  easily 
arranged.  Since  no  women  must  go  to  the  Sacred  City  — 
women,  and  in  plenty  —  as  every  one  knew  —  went  else- 
where. The  banks  of  the  Alpheios  were  lined  with  them. 

"  Yes  —  with  Hetaera;  " —  testily  broke  in  Nirias. 
"  Surely  you  would  not  have  Maia  exposed  to  — " 

"  No  —  no  "  was  Crates'  suave  reply.  "  It  is  to  meet 
just  that  objectionable  feature  that  I  am  about  to  propose 
to  you  the  following.  In  Pisa,"  he  went  on,  "  there  are 
still  a  few  houses  and  gardens  left  —  some  of  the  in- 
habitants crept  back,  and  rebuilt  their  homes,  after  the  con- 
quest. A  few  farmers  still  till  the  land.  Once,  years 
ago,  when  I  was  taken  ill  —  from  the  bad  water  at 
Olympia  —  you  know  that  water  —  Nirias  —  I  went  up  to 
one  of  these  farms.  The  farmers's  wife  was  a  kindly  soul. 
They  have  grown  richer  since  then  —  their  house  is  a 
pleasant  one. 

"  It  is  there  I  propose  we  place  Maia.  She  will  be  well 
looked  after.  And  Pisa  is  but  six  stadia  from  Olympia  — 
you  can  see  her  daily  —  Nirias  —  if  you  choose."  Crates 
folded  his  hands  before  him,  in  full  satisfaction.  The 
plan,  as  he  had  unfolded  it,  had  seemed  even  more  feasible 
that  when  he  had  thought  it  out. 

Both  faces  were  lifted  towards  him.     Nirias'  look  of  un- 


A  FATEFUL  DECISION  109 

certainty  was  replaced  by  an  eager,  by  an  almost  joyous 
expression.  If  such  a  thing  were  really  possible  —  if  Maia 
could  indeed,  be  safely  taken  along  —  could  be  securely 
housed  and  guarded  —  where  his  jealousy  could  outwatch 
any  daring  approach  to  the  fair  citadel  of  her  beauty  —  Aye ! 
aye! —  the  place  might,  indeed,  be  a  good  one!  Could  it 
be  successfully  worked  he,  Nirias  —  ill,  weak  though  he 
was  —  could  be  —  might  be  one  among  the  blessed  throng 
of  pilgrims  —  actually  once  again  might  behold  the  Sacred 
City!  The  very  thought  made  him  quiver  with  rapture. 
He  turned  to  Maia. 

"And  —  and  what  do  you  say  —  dear  Maia?  Is  the 
plan  a  good  one?  Would  it  please  you  to  go  on  this 
journey  —  to  see  the  world  a  bit?  " 

All  the  radiance  of  a  sudden  —  an  unimaginable  joy  was 
irradiating  Maia's  face.  With  an  impetuous  ardour  she 
believed  was  among  her  lost  possessions  —  so  unevoked 
had  been  rapture  these  long  months  —  Maia  moved  swiftly 
forward, —  she  flung  her  arms  about  Nirias'  neck. 

"  Dear  —  dear  Nirias !  It  is  you  who  are  good !  To 
be  even  within  six  stadia  of  Olympia  —  what  Greek  would 
not  sell  his  soul  for  such  a  hope?"  Maia  bent  forward 
—  still  nearer  —  she  pressed  her  lips  upon  the  shining  bald 
space  she  had  mocked  but  awhile  before. 

"  And  now,"  she  cried  joyously,  as  she  came  to  an  up- 
right, a  new  elasticity  of  spirit  permeating  her  whole 
frame,  "now  —  while  you  and  Crates  discuss  further  plans, 
concerning  the  journey,  I'll  talk  with  Mago  of  household 
matters.  For  there  is  no  time  to  lose." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  followed  the  bright  grace  of 
Maia's  floating  draperies,  as  she  disappeared  within  the 
house  porch.  Brilliantly  lighted  as  was  the  scene,  both  the 
terrace  and  the  outer  world  seemed  suddenly  to  have  lost 
their  true  animating  spirit.  Maia's  charm  had  the  quality 


i  io         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

of  suffusing  the  very  atmosphere  —  wherever  she  might  be. 
The  vibration  of  her  magnetism  was  still  felt- — after  she 
had  departed. 

"  A  rare  creature  —  as  rare  as  she  is  beautiful,"  cried 
Crates  —  with  enthusiasm,  half  unconsciously.  Inwardly 
he  was  thanking  the  fates  that  Olympia  and  their  tent 
would  be  six  full  stadia  from  Pisa  and  the  farm.  Heaven 
forbid  Ion  should  meet  such  a  paragon!  Crates  stirred, 
uneasily.  Had  he  been  indiscreet  in  suggesting  the 
project?  Was  there  a  possibility  —  the  most  remote  —  of 
Ion's  chancing  upon  Maia  —  hidden  away  among  the  hills  ? 
Of  course  not.  Absurd  was  the  thought!  To  what 
ridiculous  fears  love  for  a  son  could  put  a  man!  All  the 
same,  the  fact  of  so  lovely  a  creature  as  Maia  being  within 
as  short  a  distance  as  Pisa  must  be  kept  a  profound  secret. 
He  must  warn  Nirias. 

"  Of  course  —  dear  friend  "  Crates  attempted  to  give  to 
his  tones  a  casual  note,"  of  course  we  must  keep  the  matter 
a  profound  secret  —  the  slaves — " 

"  Fear  naught.  I  intend  to  muzzle  the  slaves.  A  word, 
a  hint  even  —  from  any  one  of  those  we  take  with  us  — 
and  torture  shall  be  the  punishment  of  all  —  upon  my  re- 
turn. As  for  the  crew  —  none  shall  be  allowed  to  land. 
A  fresh  ship  can  be  sent  for  the  return  journey." 

Nirias'  assured  tones  suddenly  gathered  in  volume.  He 
leant  forward  —  impressively.  He  looked  about  him  — 
his  cautious  eyes  searched  the  silent  terarce.  "  Nearer  — 
dear  friend  —  there  is  yet  another  secret  that  must  be 
kept—" 

Crates  bent  close.     He  divined  the  coming  words. 

"You  intend  to  marry  her?"  He  could  breathe  the 
freer,  he  felt,  were  the  surmise  true. 

^  Nirias  — to  his  great   relief,    gravely   nodded   his   head. 
"  You  have  divined  my  intention.     I  have,  indeeed,  always 


A  FATEFUL  DECISION  in 

intended  to  marry  her.  But  —  as  I  think  you  can  well 
understand,  dear  friend  —  it  was  wise  to  wait.  Her  youth, 
her  hard  youth,  her  innocence  and  her  great  beauty  made  me 
hesitate.  I  was  not  sure  of  her  love.  But  —  now  —  as  you 
may  see  for  yourself  —  no  woman  could  be  fonder!  She 
will  make  a  wife  in  a  thousand !  " 

Crates  answered  as  all  men  answer  —  when  self-interest 
prompts  the  gilding  of  a  lie. 

He  eased  his  inward  satisfaction  in  thanking  heaven  all 
old  men  were  not  fools.  He  knew,  at  least,  one  who  had 
never  been  fooled  by  a  woman. 


Chapter  XI 

THE  SACRED  WAY 

THE  landing  at  the  Elian  port  had  been  accomplished  with 
comparative  ease.  The  "  Maia's  "  clever  captain  anchored 
his  ship  close  to  the  very  strip  of  shore  where  Nirias'  long 
train,  sent  overland,  awaited  them.  The  litters  for  Nirias 
and  Maia;  the  horses  for  Crates  and  the  mounted  escort; 
the  asses,  already  laden  with  their  heavy  packs;  and  the 
slaves,  making  ready  to  carry  the  costly  votive  offerings  — 
the  statues  with  which  Crates  proposed  to  celebrate  Ion's 
coming  great  victory,  and  Nirias'  magnificent  gifts  by  which 
he  meant  to  impress  both  men  and  gods, —  this  little  army 
of  rich  men's  retinues  was  finally  disentangled  from  the 
surrounding  crowd.  Mago  was  soon  marshalling  his  forces 
with  military  precision. 

Crates  was  immediately  surrounded.  A  group  of  horse- 
men, who,  apparently,  had  been  on  the  lookout  for  the  ar- 
rival of  Nirias'  ship,  closed  in  about  Crates  with  a  ringing 
cheer.  One  of  the  three  riders  cried  out  — "  And  where 
is  Nirias  —  that  I  may  thank  him  for  safely  delivering 
you,  dear  father?  " 

Maia  heard  Nirias'  nervous  answer  to  what  appeared 
to  be  courteous  greetings,  and  his  quick,  agitated  whisper 
to  Mago  — 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Mago,  see  that  Maia's  curtains  are 
drawn  and  keep  them  closed,  as  you  value  your  life !  " 

Maia,  within  her  stifling  litter,  laughed  softly.  "  In  such 
a  crowd  as  this,  my  poor  Nirias,  jealousy  cannot  dog  every 
step  —  and  it  will  be  neither  Mago's  fault  nor  mine,  if 
wonderful  things  do  not  happen !  " 

112 


THE  SACRED  WAY  113 

The  dear  god  of  luck  seemed  to  befriend  Maia,  at  the 
very  outset.  No  sooner  was  their  train  in  motion,  than  a 
company  of  Corinthian  merchants  were  greeting  Nirias 
with  shouts  of  delight.  Their  own  slaves  had  not  met 
them  at  the  landing,  and  could  they  join  forces  with  Nirias? 
The  sight  of  Nirias'  distressed  expression,  his  quick  terrified 
orders  to  Mago,  made  Maia's  laughter  again  consume  her. 
"  Nirias,  Nirias ! —  to  what  lengths  will  thy  courtesy  be 
stretched!  Would  I  could  see  thy  face,  twisted  to  a  smile!  " 
Then,  quick  as  thought,  came  Maia's  command  — "  Mago, 
stand  beside  the  litter  —  but,  as  you  value  your  life,  let  go 
the  curtains !  " 

Mago  showed  his  dark  face  lit  into  illumined  beauty  by 
the  excitements  of  his  duties  and  the  march ;  he  bent  over  his 
adored  mistress,  "  Dear  lady,  I  intend  the  master's  carriers 
shall,  presently,  be  found  in  the  very  midst  of  the  Corin- 
thians. Once  Nirias  begins  to  tell  them  of  his  cures,  for 
he  has  not  seen  them  lately,  he  will  forget  to  keep  watch." 

Maia  nodded.  She  would  keep  within  her  curtains  until 
the  right  moment  came.  Indeed,  she  was  well  content  to 
be  screened  from  view. 

How  hot  it  was!  The  torrid,  relentless  Olympian  heat 
had  come  with  the  sun.  The  cooling  sea  breezes  had  died 
away.  And  the  dust!  It  rose  up  from  the  packed  road- 
way in  rolling  clouds  that  gathered  in  volume,  as  they 
swirled  upwards.  Trees,  shrubs,  fields,  the  few  pines  and 
olive  trees,  as  well  as  all  the  pilgrim-world  were  powdered 
thick  with  fine  white  particles. 

Yet  neither  heat  nor  dust  could  quench  the  gay  humour 
of  the  crowd.  Spirited  sallies,  greetings,  joyous  shouts, 
and  occasional  bursts  of  song,  made  a  contagious  festival 
spirit,  that  swept  the  Sacred  Way  like  a  stirring,  carrying 
wave. 


ii4         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Mala's  sentient  nature  was  vibrating  in  unison  to  tne 
gay  stir  and  the  busy  tumult.  She  was  shaken  by  tremors 
of  excitement.  Now  she  was  thrilling  at  the  very  thought 
of  being  one  of  the  Olympian  throng,  and  the  next  instant 
she  was  darting  behind  the  curtains  of  her  litter,  as  she 
caught  dozens  of  strange  eyes  fixed  full  upon  her.  How 
they  stared!  Ah-h  the  ever-old,  ever-new  ways  of  men! 
Not  one  among  these  pressing,  bold-eyed  creatures  but  had 
seen  women,  and  by  the  thousands,  and  yet  each  was  as 
eager  to  behold  a  new  one  as  though  she  were  the  very 
first! 

Maia  laughed,  as  a  child  might.  It  amused  her  to  see 
the  dear  men  pushing,  squeezing,  struggling  for  a  glimpse 
of  her  face.  And  what  a  world  passed  before  her  litter! 
How  Olympia  drew  men  from  every  far  away  land! 
Maia's  soul  swelled  with  pride.  There  was  no  country  so 
distant,  but  had  heard  of  mighty  Hellas!  From  every 
corner  of  the  dear  flat  earth,  great  Zeus  had  called  men 
to  worship  him. 

Ah-h,  she  must  make  the  most  of  every  moment  of  time 
—  of  every  step  taken  along  the  Sacred  Way!  Once  im- 
prisoned in  the  Pisan  farm,  with  a  brutish  farmer's  wife 
for  companion,  and  what  chance  would  there  be  of  seeing 
Olympia  or  Olympian  splendours  ?  " 

"  Surely  I  can  bribe  the  woman  —  I  shall  bribe  first  the 
dear  gods,  and  they  will  soften  the  hearts  of  my  gaoler," 
she  whispered  to,  the  mist  of  her  rising  hopes. 

With  a  dozen  plans  coursing  through  her  fertile  brain, 
Maia  was  oblivious  to  the  discomforts  of  the  Way  —  to 
the  scorching,  fiery  heat,  that  made  a  dazzle  of  the  white 
light;  to  the  clouds  of  dust  that  enveloped  the  marching 
army  of  pilgrims  like  a  mantle;  and  to  the  scant  shade  af- 
forded by  the  few  olives  and  pines  along  the  road. 


THE  SACRED  WAY  115 

Maia  felt  her  litter,  suddenly,  brought  to  a  stop.  The 
unexpected  motion  sent  her  flying  backwards.  The  curtains 
were  parted.  Mago  had,  apparently,  deserted  his  post. 

Maia  peered  through  the  slits  of  the  silken  draperies. 
The  crowd,  she  saw,  had  come  to  a  standstill.  Litters, 
asses,  horsemen,  slaves  and  ambassadors'  trains  were  in- 
extricably mixed.  Cries,  shouts,  and  curses  filled  the  air. 
Above  the  tumult,  a  single  voice  rang  out. 

"If  all  you  dear  people  will  but  stay  your  anger,  we'll 
have  this  poor  fellow's  pack  refilled  in  no  time." 

In  a  gay  note  that  had  the  ring  of  a  challenge  in  it, 
the  speaker  cried,  "  Come,  Timoleon !  Come  Glaucus !  off 
with  you  —  And  you,"  turning  to  the  slaves,  "  See  that  no 
one  comes  too  near." 

Even  as  the  young  man  cried  the  words,  with  a  light 
spring  he  had  dismounted.  The  two  gentlemen  with  him 
flung  themselves  from  their  steeds,  with  the  air  of  men  who 
were  following  a  leader.  With  gay  laughter,  like  boys 
bent  upon  a  frolic,  the  three  young  men  disappeared  from 
view.  The  crowd  closed  in  about  them. 

The  pedlar,  whose  over-swollen  pack  had  burst,  causing 
all  the  trouble,  stood  above  his  friendly  helpers.  He  was 
an  image  of  impotent  woe.  Above  the  chorus  of  the 
laughter-shaken  crowd,  his  voice  rose  up  —  he  was  call- 
ing to  all  his  hundred  gods  for  succor. 

From  the  dust  of  the  road,  the  same  voice  that  had  con- 
trolled the  pilgrim  horde,  now  rang  out,  clear,  sweet, — 
yet  with  mocking  accent  — 

"  Stop  that  nonsense !  You  lazy  fool,  down  upon  your 
knees!  Do  you  think  the  gods  are  coming  from  above,  on 
purpose, 'just  to  help  pick  up  unguents,  and  powders  and  per- 
fumes? Ah-h,  you  prefer  others  should  work,  while  you 
gird  yourself  up?  How  about  a  chaplet  and  a  little  wine, 


n6         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

to  support  you,  while  we  grope  here?  Some  one  call  a 
flute  boy  —  to  sooth  his  nerves!" 

The  crowd  yelled  with  delight.  Then  came  a  scramble, 
more  laughter  and  shouts,  and  the  three  young  men  were 
fighting  their  way  through  the  cheering  masses. 

While  the  slaves  were  brushing  the  dust  from  the  masters' 
sandals,  the  tallest,  handsomest,  of  the  three  —  he  of  the 
ringing  voice  —  again  tossed  to  the  crowd  the  sort  of  joke 
they  best  relished.  Taking  from  his  tunic  some  long- 
necked  bottles,  he  cried  out,  "  Here  Timoleon  —  here 
Glaucus  —  here's  our  share  of  the  booty  —  These  are  spoils 
not  to  be  despised  — " 

The  young  man  handed  to  each  of  his  friends  a  tiny, 
delicately  carved  flacon.  As  the  others  proceeded  to  dis- 
pose of  their  prizes,  stuffing  them  into  their  tunics,  the  by- 
standers were  rocked  with  the  ectasy  of  their  laughter. 

It  was  to  the  ringing  chorus  of  the  melodious  Greek 
voices  that  the  young  Athenians  made  a  rush  for  their 
steeds,  grasped  the  manes  of  the  mettlesome  beasts,  and 
had  sprung  to  their  seats  with  the  ease  of  perfect  cavalry 
training. 

The  prancing  horses  were  reined  in  beside  Crates. 

Maia,  whose  face  was  pushed  out  far  beyond  the  cur- 
tains—for her  excitement  was  uncontrollable  —  when  the 
trio  joined  Crates,  felt  her  breath  fairly  taken  from  her. 
She  had  followed  every  detail  of  the  amusing  scene  with 
delighted  eyes.  The  glimpse  she  had  caught  of  the 
Athenians,  with  their  unmistakeable  air  of  Attic  distinction, 
had  sent  the  quick  blood  to  her  cheeks. 

Now  that  she  saw  them  riding  beside  Crates,  a  swift 
conjecture  flashed  through  her  quick  mind.  Suppose  one  of 
them  to  be  the  much  talked-of  Ion?  Maia  strained  her 
neck  outward  as  far  as  she  dared.  The  sight  of  the  most 
beautiful  of  the  trio  — he  who  sat  his  horse  with  such 


THE  SACRED  WAY  117 

peculiar  grace  —  made  her  heart  beats  quicken.  She  knew 
herself  to  be  strangely  moved. 

"  If  he  be  really  Ion,  he  is  indeed  a  wonder!  " 

As  she  caught  a  fuller  glimpse  of  horse  and  rider,  Maia 
decided  this  gentleman  could  never  be  Ion  —  this  man 
whose  every  line  proclaimed  the  aristocrat.  This  was  no 
ship-merchant's  son!  Yet,  she  reflected,  Crates  was  al- 
ways talking  about  Ion's  beauty,  how  Athens  delighted  in 
his  comeliness,  and  how  the  most  difficult  artists  had  re- 
quested permission  to  copy  his  shapely  features. 

As  though  her  very  fate  were  involved,  Maia  lifted  her 
hands,  as  she  murmured  — 

"  O  turn  your  horse,  dear  man,  and  ride  beside  Crates 
—  I  shall  know  by  the  way  he  looks  at  thee,  whether  thou 
art  of  a  certainty  the  Apolline  Ion  —  locks  and  shape  and 
tuneful  voice." 

As  though  the  young  man  had  heard,  he  had  swept  his 
steed  close  to  Crates,  and  was  saying  — 

"  I  had  a  message  from  Xenias  last  night,  as  I  was 
awaiting  your  ship.  And  he  says — " 

Maia  lost  the  rest.  She  heard  Mago  shouting  orders, 
the  slaves'  frightened  replies,  and  her  own  body  slaves 
were  hurrying  to  their  posts  which  they  had,  for  a  time, 
deserted  that  they  might  lose  none  of  the  sport. 

Maia's  freedom  had  come  to  an  end.  Mago  was  once 
more  walking  close  beside  her  litter. 

A  deafening  scream  suddenly  rent  the  air.  Curses  and 
shrieks  were  heard  rising  above  all  the  noisy  tumult  of  the 
marching  crowd. 

"What  is  it?     Is  any  one  hurt,  Mago?"  Maia  asked. 

Mago's  usual  solemnity  had  deserted  him.  He  was 
laughing  as  loud  as  the  other  slaves. 

"  'Tis  only  the  pedlar !  He  seems  to  think  those  gentle- 
men had  nimble  fingers — " 


u8         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

The  pedlar's  voice  now  shrilled  forth  — 

"  I  am  robbed !  robbed !  and  on  the  Sacred  Way !  Sacred 
to  all  travellers  —  They  have  taken  the  costliest  of  all  my 
stock!  Who'll  help  me  catch  the  thieves?" 

Laughter,  so  full  it  seemed  to  liberate  the  very  spirit  of 
joy,  now  rang  upon  the  air.  The  voice  presently  stopped 
its  gleeful  outburst,  to  call  forth  — 

"Give  the  rascal  some  drachmae,  and  a  kick  or  two  — 
and  let  us  hurry  on,  father,  for  we  have  lost  time  with  this 
frolic.  Come,  dear  men,  let  us  try  a  dash  into  the  fields, 

—  and  under  the  shade  of  a  spreading  plane  tree  have  a 
cup  of  wine  and  a  few  figs." 

There  was  a  great  clattering  of  horses'  hoofs,  a  cloud  of 
dust  following  after,  and  the  party  were  off. 

And  so  it  was  Ion! 

He  had  called  Crates  "  father!  " 

Maia  having  grasped  this  fact,  sank  back  among  her  pil- 
lows with  a  sigh  so  deep  it  was  almost  a  sob.  "  I  am  glad, 
glad !  Now,  somewhere  —  somehow  I  shall  see  him.  He 
is  all,  and  more,  than  his  father  said  of  him." 

Even  as  she  spoke,  she  felt  the  breath  hot  upon  her  lips, 
and  her  hands  were  interlocked,  as  though  she  were  already 
gripping  some  new  form  of  happiness. 

Can  all  life  be  changed  in  a  moment  of  time?  What 
strange  world  was  opening  before  her?  Why  should  this 
mere  sight  of  a  beautiful  Athenian,  of  his  form  —  merely 

—  suddenly  flood  her  whole  being  with  joy?     This  "won- 
derful "  Ion,  as  she  had  mockingly  called  him,  when  tired 
of  hearing  of  his  father's  praise  of  him,  this  first  sight  of 
his  shape,  had  set  every  nerve  to  quivering.     Was  it  alone 
his  beauty?     He  was  as  perfect  and  complete  as  a  god  — 
that  no  one  could  deny.     His  every  motion  proclaimed  his 
mastery  of  every  part  of  his  body.     And  what  ripe,   rich 
forces  of  life  in  the  spirited,  yet  controlled,  activity! 


THE  SACRED  WAY  119 

Yet  it  was  rather  his  voice  than  his  beauty  of  form,  that 
had  stirred  to  life  this  new  world  of  feeling.  Those 
melodious  accents,  that  joyous  rhythm,  that  seemed  to 
fairly  throb  upon  the  air,  to  sing  — 

"Awake!  Live  to  the  uttermost!  Let  us  love! 
Dance !  —  Let  us  be  glad  of  our  glad  lives !  " 

How  the  laugh,  how  every  note  of  the  gayly  attuned 
voice  rang  with  the  very  joy  of  living! 

The  rest  of  the  way  Maia  rode  as  one  in  a  dream. 

For  a  long  period  of  time,  as  time  is  counted  in  dream- 
land, Maia  watched  the  motley  procession  troop  past. 
More  pedlars  and  their  packs;  bearded  Scyths;  courtly 
Persians,  magnificent,  gleaming  with  jewels  even  along  the 
Secred  Way;  fair-haired  Gauls;  men  from  Spain  as  dark 
as  stained  woods,  yet  glorious-eyed;  Egyptians  with  faces 
as  long  and  solemn  as  their  ugly  gods;  philosophers  and 
their  train  of  students;  mounted  cavalry,  dashing  past,  as 
though  Zeus  and  his  Sacred  City  were  in  danger  of  hostile 
invasion  —  while  Greeks  of  every  tint  and  in  every  sort  of 
costume,  proving  thus  the  extent  of  Greek  empire,  were 
inextricably  mixed  with  slaves  bent  double  beneath  their 
loads,  with  votive  statues,  laden  donkeys,  sheep,  and  butt- 
ing goats. 

All  the  world  on  its  way  to  Olympia  trudged  thus  past 
Maia's  litter,  and  she  scarce  knew  it  to  be  strange. 

High  above  the  clamour,  suddenly,  a  manly  voice  rang 
out.  A  familiar  Pindaric  ode  was  being  sung,  and  with 
spirited  fervour.  One  by  one,  other  voices  were  soon 
shouting  the  well  known  tune.  High  and  strong  swelled 
the  ever  gathering  volume  of  the  song.  It  swept  the  Way 
like  a  mighty  tumultuous  chorus. 

He  who  had  started  the  enlivening  strains  was  Ion! 
Maia  would  know  his  voice  now,  above  the  loudest- 
tongued  trumpet. 


120         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

And  what  had  not  the  music  done  for  the  weary  crowd ! 
Dust,  hunger,  even  thirst  were  forgotten.  The  steps  of 
those  near  to  exhaustion  were  quickened.  The  marching 
multitude,  and  for  the  first  time,  had  their  steps  attuned  to 
true  worship. 

The  song  was  done,  another  was  called  for.  Ion  was 
cheered  as  he  gave  the  opening  notes  of  a  Sophoclean 
Chorus. 

The  pilgrims  marched  as  they  sang.  To  even  barbarian 
ears  the  music  was  divine.  For  every  Greek  sang  with 
his  heart  in  his  throat,  and  some  wept  as  they  sang.  Colon- 
ists from  far  distant  lands  felt  their  very  souls  shaken. 
Once  more,  in  their  ears,  the  glorious  home  voices  were 
ringing.  Exiles  though  they  were,  yet  they  could  sing,  also, 
in  perfect  unison,  so  universal  was  the  spread  of  the  Greek 
orchestral  system.  The  whole  Greek  world  was  one. 

Before  the  beginning  of  the  next  strophe,  Maia  heard 
Ion's  glad  shout — "The  Altis!  The  Altis!  I  can  see  the 
white  walls  gleam!  Hermes  be  praised!  The  City  is  in 
full  sight!" 

The  cheer  that  rent  the  air  crashed  upon  Maia's  ears  like 
the  knell  of  doom.  The  w?alls  of  Olympia  once  in  sight, 
Mago's  orders  were  imperative.  A  certain  side  path  was 
to  be  watched  for;  the  Pisan  hills  were  to  be  reached  by  a 
circutious  route. 

Nirias  was  now  close  beside  the  litter.  He  was  strug- 
gling to  say  tender  things  in  a  whisper;  to  terrify  Mago 
with  threats  should  any  misadventure  happen  on  the  way  to 
Pisa;  and  to  keep  Ion  at  a  distance,  for  he  had  ridden  back 
to  tell  Nirias  that  Crates  was  awaiting  him  at  a  cross- 
road. 

Before  turning  into  a  side  path,  Maia,  in  attempting  to 
catch  sight  of  Ion,  had  one  swift,  enrapturing  vision. 

At  a  certain  point  in  the  road  the  crowd,  and  the  pro- 


THE  SACRED  WAY  121 

cession  of  the  statues,  slipped  downwards.  The  hills 
opened,  they  too  sloped,  with  enchanting  grace,  to  form  a 
wide  semi-circle.  At  their  feet  lay  a  valley.  In  the  lap  of 
the  valley  a  city  was  set.  Its  temples,  altars,  colonnades, 
and  its  walls  gleamed  with  colour.  Far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  golden-hued  bronzes,  tinted  statues,  and  the  dazzle  of 
Parian  marbles,  made  a  magical  blend.  As  though  to 
light  the  City  with  peculiar  splendour,  Phoebus  lent  his  ef- 
fective aid.  The  sun  was  near  to  its  setting.  The  slanting 
rays  touched  every  cornice,  every  god  and  goddess-crowded 
pediment,  and  every  rounded  column  and  all  the  popula- 
tion of  the  statues  with  their  transfiguring  glow.  The 
cloud  of  dust  that  hung  over  the  City  was  turned,  also,  to 
rosy  glory.  Incense,  rather  than  dust,  did  it  seem,  rising 
from  some  celestial  city,  whose  walls  were  golden  girdles. 

As  she  was  carried  to  the  west,  to  gain  the  narrower  side 
road,  Maia  heard  the  mighty  clamour  of  the  City  grow 
fainter  and  fainter.  The  walls  about  her  now  were  the 
cool,  green  hills.  Soon  upon  her  ear  there  fell  the  lisping 
of  a  flowing  river.  And  her  heart  died  within  her.  Her 
imprisonment  had  begun. 

Yet  —  she  had  seen  —  she  had  looked  upon  Olympia ! 


Chapter  XII 

ION  AND  MAIA 

THE  very  next  afternoon  Ion  stood  at  the  door  of  his  tent. 
With  one  hand  he  screened  his  eyes  —  the  sun  was  scorching. 
With  the  other  he  fingered,  idly,  the  jewelled  clasp  of  his 
tunic. 

For  the  first  time  since  his  father's  and  Nirias'  arrival, 
he  felt  himself  to  be  free.  The  two  elderly  gentlemen, 
worn  out  with  excitement,  were  fast  asleep.  In  the  inner 
room,  the  slaves  were  on  duty:  the  creak  of  the  fans  came 
with  measured  beat.  Ion  felt  no  sense  of  fatigue.  He 
longed,  however,  for  a  moment  of  complete  solitude,  of  es- 
cape. 

For  days  and  weeks  Ion  had  lived  in  this  clogged,  heated 
Olympian  atmosphere.  Besides  the  fierce  sun,  and  the 
proverbial  dust,  he  had  breathed  for  long  months,  the 
febrile  air  of  a  contestant.  The  strain,  now  that  the  open- 
ing of  the  games  drew  near,  had  begun  to  tell,  even  on  his 
hardened  nerves. 

To-day,  at  least,  he  must  have  rest  —  peace. 

"Persia!"  he  cried  out,  suddenly,  his  eyes  blinking  be- 
fore the  fierce  white  light,  "Tell  my  father,  should  he 
wake,  I  am  gone  forth,  to  the  Fair,  and  beyond.  I  may 
be  abroad  till  night-fall  —  have  Xenias  await  my  return. 
No  —  you  are  not  needed, —  drench  that  in  perfume  — 
and  give  me  my  cane,"  and  Ion  handed  his  slave  his  hand- 
kerchief, and  then  grasped  the  tall  cane  held  out  to  him. 

A  moment  later,  Ion  was  speeding  down,  towards  the 
Plain. 

122 


ION  AND  MAIA  123 

The  roar  and  rustle,  the  shouts  and  cries  of  rustling, 
moving,  fighting  thousands  reached  Ion's  ear.  He  caught, 
above  the  loud  confusion,  certain  well-defined  sounds. 
There  was  the  sharp  smiting  of  leathern-bound  knuckles,  on 
bared  flesh;  there  was  the  swift,  onward  rush  of  runners; 
there  was  the  metallic  ring  of  the  rolling  discus;  and  there 
were  the  keen  cries  of  praise,  of  reprimand,  or  of  encour- 
agement from  trainers  and  onlookers. 

Past  the  polychrome  temples,  and  the  multitude  throng- 
ing the  Festal  Square  Ion  hurried  onwards.  The  mon- 
ologue of  philosopher's,  airing  the  latest  novelties  concerning 
the  soul  and  the  universe; — rhapsodists  chanting  Homeric 
verse; — musicians  playing  on  shrill  pipes,  flutes,  and 
trumpets,  and,  as  he  neared  the  Hippodrome,  the  sound  of 
horses  running,  neighing,  and  the  grooms'  cries,  followed 
him  down  to  the  crowded  streets  of  the  Fair. 

To  all  whom  he  met,  he  made  courteous  excuses.  He 
hurried  through  the  bazaar-lined  streets.  Once  he  had 
gained  the  shores  of  the  Alpheios,  in  safety,  with  no  one  of 
his  many  acquaintances  or  friends,  anxious  for  the  latest 
news  from  the  stables,  pulling  his  mantle,  to  ask  tiresome 
questions,  he  could  turn  Pisa-wards. 

Even  as  he  made  up  his  mind  just  what  should  be  done 
with  his  time,  the  thought  of  the  deep,  cool  shade  in  the 
forest  groves,  beyond  the  bridge,  the  babbling  of  the  quiet 
river,  and  a  long  stretching,  on  sweet  grasses, —  the  mere 
thought  filled  nim  with  delight. 

The  narrow  Pisan  streets  were  as  still  as  a  deserted  tem- 
ple. Every  male  who  could  walk  was  crowding  the 
Palestra,  or  the  Stadion,  or  was  walking  beneath  the  scant 
shade  of  the  plane  trees  of  the  Sacred  City. 

Ah-h  —  the  long  sweet  silence ! 

After  the  dust,  the  noisy  clamour  of  Olympia,  these  still 
Pisan  streets  were  better  than  the  music  of  shrill-tongued 


124         £>N  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

flutes.  Homely,  rustic  sounds  alone  filled  the  still  air. 
Some  maidens'  voices,  from  enclosed  gardens,  rose  up,  clear 
and  soft.  It  was  long  since  Ion  had  heard  a  woman's 
voice. 

How  pleasant  indeed,  the  quiet!  How  odorous  the 
perfumed  air!  Beneath  the  shade  of  the  tall  trees,  Ion 
walked  on  and  on.  Already,  he  felt  amazingly  refreshed. 
His  frame  seemed  re-knit,  to  new  energies.  He  felt  the 
tingling  glow  of  restored  condition. 

A  house-door  suddenly  opened.  Through  the  low  portal 
swept  two  women  shapes. 

Ion's  wide  eyes  grew  wider,  and  still  wider,  with  wonder. 
He  slowed  his  step.  For  one  of  these  shapes  recalled 
Athenian  grace  —  and  the  robes  were  of  Corinthian  splen- 
dour. 

The  elder  of  the  two  women  wore  the  common  Pisan 
dress,  the  short  Doric  tunic.  It  was  the  younger  of  the 
two  that  sent  an  agreeable  quiver  of  interest  and  curi- 
osity, through  Ion's  impressionable  frame. 

No  Pisan  this!  The  stranger's  delicate,  costly  em- 
broideries were  swept  out  of  the  dust,  by  a  practised  hand. 
Here  was  the  deft  touch  of  city-bred  grace.  How  lovely 
the  full,  yet  harmonious  outlines!  The  veil,  obviously, 
was  worn  solely  for  ornament.  It  barely  covered  the  high- 
piled  golden  crown  of  tresses.  The  pink  cloud,  slightly 
puffed  outwards  by  the  light  breeze,  resembled  the  -gauzy 
veil  painters  delight  in,  when  framing  Aphrodite's  shape. 

Who,  in  the  name  of  all  the  graces,  could  the  lovely 
creature  be? 

Here  was  an  adventure,  and  one  any  man  might  be 
proud  to  follow.  Such  luck  as  to  meet  a  Corinthian  or 
an  Athenian  upon  a  Pisan  highroad,  was  luck  indeed. 
What  a  tale  he  would  have  to  tell  Glaucus  —  Timoleon 


ION  AND  MAIA  125 

—  could  he  but  manage  to  have  speech  with  the  divinity! 

Ion  pressed  onward.  But  he  trod  lightly.  Pink 
wonders,  like  butterflies,  might  easily  be  frightened  away. 
His  quick  ears  now  caught  part  of  the  women's  talk.  He 
heard  the  Pisan  clearly: — 

"  You  say  your  embroideries  come  from  the  East,  and  you 
have  the  chitons  and  mantles  made  in  the  house?" 

The  two  were  hastening  their  steps.  They  were  ob- 
viously making  their  way  Olympia-wards  —  towards  the 
river  bank. 

"  Yes  — "  the  lady  in  pink  replied,"  I  have  a  slave  who 
cuts,  and  another  who  drapes  them,  to  perfection."  As 
she  spoke,  she  stopped,  to  re-adjust  a  fallen  shoulder 
buckle. 

Ion  caught  a  swift  glimpse  of  the  profile  —  of  full,  rose- 
like  lips,  and  of  the  pure,  perfect  nose,  its  line  one  with 
the  forehead  —  the  true  Attic  outline !  Ion  felt  his  breath 
sensibly  quicken. 

The  two  had  now  resumed  their  walk.  The  Pisan  was 
heard  heaving  an  audible  sigh. 

"Well  —  you  are  to  be  envied!  We  Elians  must  dress 
as  best  we  can.  Once  in  five  years  at  least,  we  see  the 
world  —  and  the  fashions.  The  rest  of  the  time  it  is  all 
a  making  and  a  rearing  of  children,  wearing  one's  life  out 
trying  to  get  a  day's  weaving  done,  with  a  house  full  of 
.slaves,  and  no  thanks  for  one's  efforts,  either.  Now  —  I 
suppose  —  now,  in  Corinth  no  one  weaves  their  own 
linen?" 

Ion's  smile  broadened.  He  had  the  clue  he  had  longed 
for.  In  spite  of  her  Attic  profile,  the  beauty  came  from 
Corinth!  But  what  was  she  saying? 

"  Oh  —  the  Corinthian  ladies,  I  believe,  do,  indeed,  still 
weave  their  own  linen.  But  Nirias  refuses  to  have  a  weav- 


126         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

ing-room  in  the  house.  He  insists  it  would  weary  me, 
would  confine  me  over  much  —  might  hurt  my  voice  —  but 
where  are  we  straying?  " 

Nirias!  Nirias!  Of  all  marvels!  Ion  felt  a  wild 
buzzing  in  his  ears.  What  could  Nirias  of  Corinth,  have 
in  common  with  this  adorable  being?  Ah!  —  the  light 
broke  —  the  amazing  mystery  was  suddenly  cleared.  Ion 
felt  his  brain  in  a  whirl,  yet  his  thought  was  clear.  Here 
—  a  few  paces  ahead,  actually  walked  the  "  Corinthian 
Wonder !  "  "  The  Incomparable !  " —  could  it  be  possible  ? 

The  vision  of  that  sunset  scene  at  Phalerum  arose,  like 
a  swiftly-placed  picture,  before  Ion's  quick  mind.  He  saw 
the  gauzy  hills,  the  purple  waters,  and  the  stately  trireme, 
its  oarsmen  ready  to  plough  the  meadowy  seas.  This  sway- 
ing grace  so  close,  so  near,  now,  that  the  perfume  of  her 
draperies  swept  his  quivering  nostrils,  this  was  the  divine 
shape  all  Athens  had  acclaimed.  She  it  was  who  had  risen 
to  the  great  moment,  had  stood,  with  perfect,  statue-like 
grace,  to  receive  a  city's  homage,  as  might  its  queen. 

Now  she  was  humanly,  tantalizingly  near.  She  was 
also,  all  the  gods  be  thanked,  virtually  alone;  there  was  no 
jealous  Nirias  to  mount  guard  over  her.  Ion  felt  the  very 
heavens  open  upon  an  endless  chain  of  possibilities.  He 
should,  of  course,  presently  accost  this  marvel.  Some  ex- 
cuse, some  plausible  phrase  would  leap  to  his  lip.  As  he 
dazedly  attempted  to  frame  a  suitable  question,  flashes  of 
fresh  wonderment  swept  his  thoughts. 

If  Nirias  had  brought  the  girl  with  him,  up  from 
Corinth,  then  she  must  have  been  in  Nirias'  train.  She  too 
must  have  made  the  long  journey,  up  from  the  Elian  port, 
along  the  Sacred  Way!  And  he,  never  to  have  guessed  of 
such  a  presence!  And  his  father,  never  to  have  breathed  a 
word  of  the  great  secret! 

Ion  saw  the  workings,  as  in  a  flash,  of  the  whole  plot. 


ION  AND  MAIA  127 

The  second,  closed  litter  with  its  "  aged  philosopher  "  had 
been  Maia's  —  yes  —  that  was  surely  the  name  —  how 
soft,  how  sweet  the  syllables!  He  almost  breathed  the 
name  aloud,  as  his  lips  caressed  the  melodious  vowels. 

The  two  women  had  now  come  to  a  standstill.  They 
stood,  obviously  irresolute.  Maia  showed  a  growing, 
feminine  impatience.  Her  sentences  came,  with  shortened 
breath. 

"  You  say  we  had  better  go  towards  the  long  bridge  ? 
But  the  statuette  merchants  are  closer  to  the  other  —  some 
one  said!  Ye  gods  —  how  hot  it  is!  Why  did  we  not 
bring  a  slave  with  us  ?  At  least  —  with  a  parasol  I  should 
not  fear  being  burnt  to  a  crisp !  "  Obviously  the  beauty 
had  a  temper. 

"  You  Corinthians  are  so  soft !  "  the  Pisan  shot  forth. 
She  had  thrown  back  her  veil  —  she  was  turning  her 
f rozzled  head  about  —  now  twisting  it  impatiently  towards 
the  river,  now  to  the  bridge  —  now  backwards  towards  the 
road  by  which  she  had  come.  She  looked  for  all  the  world 
like  a  bewildered,  angry  hen.  "  By  Heavens  —  if  we 
Pisans  had  time  to  think  of  our  complexions!  But  where, 
in  the  names  of  the  furies,  are  those  booths?  I  could  have 
sworn  they  lay  directly  before  us!  Those  stupid  vendors 
change  their  places  every  year  —  as  though  on  purpose  to 
vex  one.  Ah!  here  is  a  gentleman!  As  he  is  a  stranger, 
he  doubtless  knows  the  fair  —  by  heart." 

The  Pisan  had  turned.     The  two  now  faced  Ion. 

"  Dear  Sir  —  perhaps  you  could  tell  us  —  we  seek  the 
statuette  vendors'  booths  —  their  boats  will  come  out  to  us. 
Is  it  by  the  long,  or  by  the  short  bridge,  we  had  best 
stand?" 

Ion  stopped,  stared  —  and  was  tongue-tied.  Maia's 
startled  face  —  her  amazement  and  confusion,  as  their  eyes 
met,  made  Ion  conscious  only  of  two  overwhelming  emo- 


128         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

tions.  He  must  prolong  the  moment  —  he  must  keep  this 
"  wonder  "  beside  him  —  and  —  he  must,  also,  force  her  to 
speak.  The  flush  that  was  now  crimsoning  the  expres- 
sive face  was  already  one  form  of  speech.  She  knew  him 
—  had  surely  seen  or  heard  of  him  before.  There  had 
flashed  from  her  eyes  a  look  of  recognition. 

Ion's  brain  suddenly  cleared.  With  easy,  plausible 
phrases  he  held  Pisan.  He  made  use  of  all  his  powers 
of  attraction. 

"  Ah-h  Madame, —  there  is  indeed  a  short  way  to  the 
shore  —  where  the  statuette  vendors'  booths  lie  —  but  you 
will,  I  fear,  be  burnt  alive  on  your  way.  Whereas, 
through  the  groves  —  'tis  somewhat  longer  —  'tis  true  — 
but  the  elms  cast  agreeable  coolness.  I  go  your  way  — 
permit  me  to  put  you  on  your  path." 

A  second  mounting  of  the  pink  flush  over  Maia's  cheeks 
and  brow,  was  his  answer.  Her  eyes  fell,  when  his 
searched  to  fix  them.  That  was  a  still  better  eloquence. 
Never  had  he  seen  confusion  wear  a  lovier  aspect. 

There  was  brief  chance  for  speech,  for  the  Pisan  was 
babbling  on,  in  loud  tones,  about  everything,  about  noth- 
ing. 

"  If  it  be  not  an  indiscretion  —  dear  Sir  —  who  is  likely, 
think  you,  to  win  in  the  boy's  race  ?  "  She  did  not  wait 
for  answer.  "  We  Elians  are  praying  Cleomenes  may  bear 
off  the  prize.  The  lad  has  been  in  training  these  two  years. 
'Twill  break  his  father's  heart,  were  he  not  to  come  forth 
victor  — "  On  and  on  the  words  poured  forth. 

Ion  and  Maia  did  not  really  mind.  Since  Ion  could  now 
look  his  fill,  since  he  could  walk  thus,  on  and  on,  he 
was  almost  content.  His  moment  would  surely  come. 
Meanwhile  he  could  let  his  eyes  have  a  very  riot  of  joy. 

In  her  turn,  Maia  felt  herself  regaining  self-mastery. 
At  first,  she  had  neither  been  mistress  of  her  tongue  nor  her 


ION  AND  MAIA  129 

eyes.  The  shock  of  finding  Ion  the  hero  of  the  Way,  of 
Phalerum  —  of  all  creatures  —  and  here,  in  this  lonely  road 
—  as  though  he  had  dropped  from  heaven  —  the  effort  to 
surmount  the  instinct  to  cry  his  name  out  —  to  let  her 
amazement  burst  forth,  had  required  all  Maia's  self- 
mastery. 

Just  what  words  she  gathered  to  answer  Ion,  she  never 
knew.  His  face  and  eyes  thrilled  her.  The  mingled  fire 
and  sweetness  she  had  noticed,  at  Phalerum,  now  seen  and 
felt,  at  close  range,  were  disturbing.  She  found  herself 
seeking  to  avoid  their  power  —  their  strangely  searching 
rays.  His  tall,  shapely  frame,  now  so  close  beside  her;  the 
sweep  of  his  mantle,  and  a  certain  unmistakable  power  of 
attraction  the  young  man  possessed,  to  make  nerves  quiver, 
and  muscles  feel  like  melting  wax, —  Ion  had  not  walked 
beside  Maia  a  dozen  steps,  before  his  strangely  sweet,  yet 
disturbing  influence,  was  strongly  upon  her. 

Whenever  she  found  courage  to  lift  her  eyes,  Ion's,  she 
found,  were  raining  down  upon  her  their  luminous  fire. 
Involuntarily,  each  smiled,  as  their  eyes  met.  The  smile 
made  their  walking  easier.  Each,  now,  felt  they  could  look 
their  fill.  To  smile  and  gaze  was,  indeed,  better  than 
speech. 

The  Pisan  strode  on  ahead.  She  did  the  talking  for  all 
three.  Delighted  at  the  capture  of  an  Athenian  —  she 
knew  Ion  for  an  Athenian  at  a  glance,  by  the  way  he  held  his 
mantle  —  the  country  woman  joyed  in  the  free  use  of  her 
tongue.  By  proving  herself  open  and  free,  she  would  get 
all  the  news  she  yearned  to  hear. 

"  Dear  Sir  —  what  a  thing  to  see  —  such  races  as  there'll 
be  run  after  the  morrow!  Yes  —  yes,  I  saw  several  — 
and  good  ones  —  in  my  young  days  —  when,  as  a  maiden, 
I,  too,  ran  in  the  palaestra.  But  Vesta  locks  the  door  on 


130         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

us  women.  After  marriage  —  no  races  for  us.  It  is  our 
business  to  breed  the  racers.  Ha!  Ha!  Well  —  Mad- 
ame—  and  if  you  please  —  keep  your  elbows  to  yourself! 
One  doesn't  work  one's  way  through  a  crowd,  as  one 
would  through  a  drove  of  cattle!"  the  Pisan  angrily  spit 
forth  her  words.  For  they  had  now  gained  the  high  road, 
and  a  countrywoman  was  using  her  elbows  as  though  they 
were  rakes. 

The  shore  at  last  had  been  reached.  The  crowd  of 
women  and  slaves  was  closing  in  about  them.  Vendors  in 
shallow  boats  were  seen  clogging  the  river.  Thick  groups 
of  country  buyers  were  massed  above  the  banks.  The 
shrieks  and  bustle  of  bargaining  voices  filled  the  air. 

Maia  was  close  beside  Ion.  But  the  Pisan  was  hanging 
over  the  river  bank.  They  heard  her  loud  voice  rising, 
above  all  others. 

Ion  felt,  at  last,  his  great  moment  had  come.  He  held 
out  his  hand  —  he  swung  Maia  in  among  a  thick  grove  of 
trees.  Laughing,  breathless,  grasping  her  draperies  as  best 
she  could,  Maia  sped  along.  Ion  brought  her  to  a  rest 
below  a  tall  pedestal,  on  which  stood  a  winged  Victory  — 
with  hovering  wings. 

Behind  the  pedestal  Ion  stood,  with  outstretched  hands. 
His  eyes  rained  life,  delight.  Again  Maia  felt  their  sweet 
fierce  power. 

"  You  are  Maia  —  of  Corinth,"  Ion  cried  out,  in  ringing 
voice.  He  seemed  to  be  amazingly  happy,  in  saying  this. 
His  whole  face  was  aglow. 

"  And  you  are  Ion,"  laughed  Maia,  with  bubbling  voice. 
Then,  involuntarily,  their  hand-clasp  tightened.  Their 
eyes  were  interlocked.  For  a  full  moment  they  stood  thus, 
Maia  attempting  to  withdraw  her  hand.  Ion's  grasp  was 
of  iron.  Again  he  bent  upon  her  that  look  of  compelling 
sweetness.  To  have  him  look  upon  her  thus  —  to  feel  him 


ION  AND  MAIA  J3I 

come  nearer  —  nearer  still  —  Maia  shivered.  A  weakness 
she  had  never  imagined  could  come  upon  her,  shook  her; 
she  felt  her  knees  giving  away.  As  one  in  actual  pain,  she 
bent  her  head  now  this  way,  now  that.  She  heard  Ion's 
low  voice,  broken,  tremulous  —  his  head  was  bent,  his  eyes, 
his  very  lips  seemed  to  seek  hers.  It  was  as  though  a 
lightning  bolt  from  heaven's  blue  had  shot  downward  to 
transfix  Maia  —  to  rivet  her  frame. 

Ion  seemed  as  sensibly  moved.  Yet  he  found  words  — 
broken,  tremulous  —  he  breathed  them  forth.  "  Oh-h  —  I 
beseech  thee  —  seek  not  to  put  me  away  —  look  up !  Let 
me  but  drink  deep.  Ah-h  —  if  you  knew  —  but  knew  how 

—  since  that  day  —  since  Phalerum  —  I  have  had  but  one 
thought  —  one  dream — " 

Maia  heard  the  words  as  one  who  hears,  at  last,  celes- 
tial music.  She  feared  to  look  —  to  meet  those  deep, 
divine  eyes  —  and  yet,  could  she  but  nerve  herself  —  could 
she  — 

Ion,  with  bold  courage  had  now  clasped  Maia's  shoulder. 
His  bared  warm  arm  curled  about  her  neck.  After  that,  to 
have  the  lips  meet  seemed  the  only  possible  speech.  In  that 
delicious  meeting,  the  two  souls  met  and  were  married. 
Like  the  mating  of  the  immortal  gods,  those  two  having 
met,  looked,  loved  and  kissed. 

As  Maia  released  herself,  her  eyes,  at  last  were  given, 
with  all  their  happy  trance  of  joy,  to  Ion's.  She  attempted 
to  voice  the  tremendous,  the  overwhelming  emotion.  "  You 

—  I  —  Oh-h  how  strange  it  all  is!     How  came  we  to  —  ?  " 
But   Ion   was  now  softly   kissing  her   lids.     What  was 

speech  before  such  an  ecstacy  of  touch? 

After  a  moment,  Maia  drew  herself  away.  Hand  locked 
in  hand,  the  two  wandered  on,  beneath  the  trees'  deep 
shade.  It  seemed  the  full  of  bliss  to  walk  thus,  to  feel  the 
other  so  near,  so  close  — 


I32         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Speech  came  at  last.  Confused,  halting,  the  sentences  grew 
longer,  fuller. 

Ion  poured  forth  his  longing,  his  thoughts,  dreams,  con- 
jectures. "  From  the  very  first  —  dearest  Maia  —  you 
drew —  you  had  won  me  to  you  —  on  that  golden  even- 
ing, as  you  stood  —  a  divine  image  of  grace,  of  beauty, 
against  the  azure.  All  other  women,  for  me,  died  then. 
In  all  these  months  —  Maia!  Maia! — your  name  has 
filled  my  soul  —  my  thoughts.  How  can  you  wonder  that, 
seeing  you  —  you  knew  me  for  your  very  own?  " 

A  shepherd's  piping  brought  the  long  kiss  with  which 
she  answered  him  to  an  end.  As  Maia  released  herself, 
she  re-captured,  in  part,  her  lost  self-control.  Ion's  arm 
again  clasped  her  shoulder.  Walking  thus,  the  two  heads 
were  almost  on  a  level. 

Yet,  when  she  began  to  speak,  there  seemed  but  little  to 
say.  Eventful  as  had  been  her  life,  and  varied  as  was  her 
history,  all  past  experience  seemed  to  shrivel  into  nothing- 
ness besides  this  new,  this  mighty  power  that  swept  her 
whole  being.  In  disjointed,  incoherent  phrases,  Maia,  in 
her  turn,  strove  to  confess  her  loneliness,  her  longing  to  find 
kindred,  the  hardness  of  her  life  with  Manes,  the  mixed 
feelings  she  felt  towards  Nirias.  But  she  was  as  one  talk- 
ing in  a  dream.  The  only  reality  was  Ion's  wondrous  near- 
ness—  his  soft  soul-subduing  glance,  and  the  strange  sweet 
beauty  of  his  dear  face. 

Maia  drew  deep,  tremulous  sighs.  She  knew  of  a  cer- 
tainty now  what  had  come  upon  her.  This  Ion  had  stolen 
her  soul  away.  She  was  his  for  evermore.  What  difference 
did  one  or  a  thousand  kisses  make?  He  owned  them  and  her. 
Her  whole  being  had  passed  into  his  keeping. 

In  the  far  distance  a  voice  was  presently  heard  calling. 
The  Pisan  was  shrieking  aloud  Maia's  name. 


ION  AND  MAIA  133 

Maia  started. 

"  Ion  —  dearest  —  I  must  go,"  she  breathed.  Yet  even 
as  she  moved,  she  ventured  to  press  her  cheek  against  Ion's 
breast. 

He  drew  the  dear  head  close.  He  lifted  a  golden  tress 
to  his  lips,  and  then  hurriedly,  he  said :  "  Listen  —  dearest 
—  most  beautiful  of  women !  As  you  know,  the  games  open 
in  a  few  days.  I  cannot  hope  to  be  free  —  to  come  to  you, 
until  the  Procession  is  over.  But  my  slave  Persia  will 
bring  you  my  greeting.  He  shall  go  to  you  at  dawn. 
Ninas  and  my  father  will  be  then  at  the  games,  with  all 

< 

the  rest  of  the  world.  Lift  your  eyes  —  my  beloved.  Oh 
Maia  —  I  bless  Heaven  for  the  gift  of  such  love !  " 

The  wings  of  the  motionless  Victory  seemed  to  flutter 
above  them,  in  sympathy  with  this  quivering  human  emo- 
tion. There  was  a  long  final  clasp  —  and  each  went  their 
way. 

In  another  instant  life's  stream  had  re-captured  the  two 
lovers.  The  Pisan  had  found  Maia,  and  was  hurrying 
her  homewards.  She  exultingly  displayed  some  painted 
images  of  her  favourite  god,  that  she  had  bought,  at  an  un- 
heard-of price.  "  The  gods,  this  year,  are  cheap  at  the 
Fair !  "  Ion  heard  her  cry,  as  she  swept  her  treasures  be- 
fore Maia's  eyes. 

The  hum  and  roar  of  the  Fair  struck  Ion's  ears,  as  he 
re-crossed  the  Bridge.  The  Fair  was  having  its  last  great 
day.  Once  the  games  opened,  the  festival  pilgrims  would 
have  no  time  for  viewing  either  marble  masterpieces,  Cor- 
inthian vases,  or  the  costly  tapestries  and  gems,  Eastern  mer- 
chants brought,  to  tempt  Greek  taste. 

Ion  worked  his  way  easily,  joyously,  through  crowds  of 
barbarians  from  all  over  the  world.  He  had  only  gay 
words  for  a  tight  squeeze,  and  no  time  whatever  for  the 


134         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

most  perfect  master-pieces  of  sculpture.  He  was  walking 
on  soft,  yielding  air.  He  was  alive  only  to  the  world  of 
sensation,  emotion,  and  rapture  that  filled  his  soul. 

At  one  corner,  indeed,  he  did  stay  his  steps.  The  word 
"  soul  "  enchained  his  ear.  Now  that  he  really  knew  of 
what  that  spirit  was  capable,  it  would  be  amusing  to  hear 
the  latest  absurdity  in  the  matter  of  a  theory,  voiced  by 
philosophy. 

Ion  drew  near  to  a  group  of  pretty  young  gentlemen. 
Several  wore  wreaths  about  their  perfumed  locks.  Their 
faces  showed  serious  looks.  A  learned  lecturer  was  telling 
these  votaries  of  idleness  and  fashion  the  interesting  fact 
"  That  the  soul  of  man  is  immortal,  and  at  one  time  has  an 
end,  which  is  termed  dying;  and  at  another  time  is  born 
again,  but  is  never  destroyed.  And  the  moral  is,  that  a 
man  ought  to  live  always  in  perfect  holiness."  The 
wreathed  heads  nodded,  gravely,  in  admiring  response. 

Ion  smiled  —  his  happy  laughter  all  but  burst  from 
him,  as  he  leapt,  upward,  along  the  hill  slope,  towards  his 
tent.  "  And  I  —  I  know  a  philosophy  of  life  better  and 
truer  than  yours  —  O  wise  man !  One  that  better  befits  the 
brilliant  bloom  of  youth.  'Tis  to  love  battle,  and  the 
games,  and  dear  women  —  to  yearn  to  carry  off  the  triple 
prize  —  to  be  crowned  victor  at  Olympia,  to  win  Aphro- 
dite's blessing  and  Mars'  approval.  O  —  Maia!  Maia! 
Divine  thou  art  —  and  already  dear  beyond  all  words  —  for 
the  very  thought  of  thee  makes  victory  seem  easy !  " 

When  Ion  entered  the  tent,  he  found  his  father  and 
Nirias  at  their  light  evening  meal.  Even  Nirias  lifted 
startled  amazed  eyes.  Never  had  he  seen  Ion  as  radiant,  as 
instinct  with  the  lovely  forces  of  youth.  Crates  followed 
Ion's  motions  with  positive  rapture,  as  Ion  made  his  swift 
toilet  for  the  meal;  he  was  talking,  laughing,  gesticulating, 


ION  AND  MAIA  135 

with  such  impetuous  ardour  and  perfect  grace,  as  to  make 
every  point  of  his  beauty  the  more  effective. 

With  a  gratified  grunt  of  delight,  Ion  flung  himself  down 
beside  his  father.  Leaning  forward  he  clasped  Crates  to 
his  warm  breast.  He  kissed  him,  effusively,  with  boyish 
rapture.  "Father!  father!  —  a  god  has  spoken  to  me  out 
yonder  —  in  the  hills !  We  shall  win  —  dear  man  —  surely 
we  shall  win !  Never  did  I  hear  a  god's  voice  speak  as 
plainly!" 

Nirias  and  Crates  smiled  —  in  delighted  assent.  Ion 
entirely  omitted  to  name  the  god.  Nor  did  it  cross  Ion's 
dazed  mind  that,  during  the  whole  interview  with  Maia, 
he  had  never  once  made  mention  of  either  car  or  of  horses. 


Chapter  XIII 

THE   POMPIC  WAY 

FOR  a  man  in  love,  the  days  that  followed  might  have 
been  the  quickest  of  cures.  Ion  was  hurried  from  one  ex- 
citement to  another.  These  days  immediately  preceding  the 
opening  of  the  Games  were  filled  with  engagements,  the 
taking  of  oaths,  the  making  of  costly  sacrifie, —  to  please 
his  father  —  the  registering  of  bets,  on  the  favourite  —  on 
the  Thessalian  lad  whom  every  one,  even  the  trainers  were 
certain  would  win  the  true  Olympic  —  the  runners'  race  — 
and  with  banquets  that  must  be  gone  to  and  given. 

Yet  through  every  waking  moment,  in  the  midst  of  the 
most  portentous  events,  the  thought  of  Maia  rose  up  to 
flood  Ion's  soul  with  sub-conscious  delight.  This  birth  of 
love  had  brought  an  extraordinary  elation  —  a  sustained 
ecstacy  of  feeling  that  made  every  act  important  —  and 
therefore  the  easier  to  perform,  and  that  assuaged  the  teas- 
ing wear  to  easier  endurance. 

At  last  the  great  day  dawned!  Before  night  ended,  Ion 
would  know  the  verdict  of  Olympia  on  his  car.  In  the 
great  procession  that  opened  the  games,  the  Olympic  con- 
testants were  passed  in  review.  The  verdicts  given  along 
the  Pompic  Way  were  to  be  dreaded  —  to  be  heard  in 
trembling  —  those  hundreds  of  trained  eyes  could  so  often 
voice  failure  or  success! 

As  the  sun  sank,  and  the  amber  moon  showed  low  above 
the  purple  Arcadian  hills,  Ion  felt  the  rising  pulse  of  the 
Olympian  excitement.  In  a  few  short  shades  the  silver 
trumpets  would  sound. 

136 


THE  POMPIC  WAY  137 

As  Ion  swept  into  the  warm,  golden  night,  his  step  upon 
the  blistered  hillslope  was  winged  with  joy.  The  quick- 
ened throb  upon  the  air,  the  familiar  beat  upon  the  Elian 
night  of  a  world  making  ready,  the  tumult  and  clamour 
of  these  moving,  agitated  thousands  thrilled  every  quiver- 
ing nerve. 

Ion  found  his  father  standing  at  the  opening  of  Nirias' 
tent.  He  was  staring  down  at  the  Altis.  He  was  stamp- 
ing, with  impatience;  he  called,  aloud,  to  a  dozen  gods  to 
come  and  look  upon  Nirias  —  in  his  role  of  a  fatuous 
fool. 

"  Yea !  —  go  in  —  in,  I  say,  and  see  a  man  as  vain  as  a 
woman!  We've  wasted  a  whole  shade,  to  have  Nirias' 
hair  properly  curled !  "  was  Crates'  angry  greeting  to  his 
son. 

Ion's  eyes  danced  with  mirth.  He  took  in  with  amused 
delight,  his  father's  characteristic  indifference  to  the  nice- 
ties of  display.  Crates'  festival  robes  had  been  long  since 
donned.  The  flowers  of  his  garland  were  already  fading. 
What  cared  he  —  at  his  age  —  how  his  robes  hung?  As 
for  Nirias  —  this  his  passion  for  dress  —  he  cried  out  — 
in  renewed  disgust,  marked  the  weakness  of  his  nature. 
When  a  man  —  nearly  sixty  —  took  to  women  and  clothes ! 
—  Crates  finished  his  comment  with  a  fresh  oath. 

Ion's  laughter  was  still  warming  him,  as  he  hastened  to 
enter  the  tent. 

Nirias  had  no  eyes  for  the  young  man's  festival  splen- 
dour. Its  effects  of  studied  simplicity  were  lost  upon  the 
Corinthian. 

Mago  was  in  the  very  act  of  clasping  a  huge  jewel  about 
his  master's  stout  arm.  Nirias'  eyes  strayed  from  his  mir- 
ror to  take  in  one  point  of  Ion's  costume  — 

"  Ah-h !  I  see  you  wear  your  breast  garlands  as  though 
they  were  a  wreath  — "  he  cried,  as  he  studied  the  effect  of 


i38         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

the  thick,  closely  woven  rope  of  flowers,  above  wnose 
illiptical  curves,  Ion's  bared  breast  and  throat  rose,  with  the 
noble  lines  of  young  strength. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Ion, —  his  eyes  dancing. 

"  Then  it  is  thus  I  will  wear  mine.  Change  the  flow- 
ers Mago  —  put  them  a  little  lower  than  Ion's  —  thus." 
The  garland  was  finally  settled  to  Nirias'  satisfaction. 
His  mirror  showed  him  the  full  expanse  of  his  fat  neck, 
a  pulpy  white  mass  of  flesh,  rising  above  the  roses. 

Ion  secretly  wondered  if  vanity  as  dense  could  seize  upon 
a  man,  like  some  disfiguring  disease,  and  leave  the  victim 
all  unconscious  of  the  hideous  face  it  wore.  He  thought 
of  Maia  —  and  of  her  possible  marriage  to  this  lump  of 
selfishness  —  and  his  anger  rose  to  boiling  point.  "  Come 
O  Nirias  —  we  are  late  —  even  now  father  is  fuming — ." 
He  could  scarce  control  his  voice. 

"  Your  father  has  been  fretting  since  the  sun  rose.  He 
would  have  started  for  the  Altis  at  dawn  —  to  hold  his 
place  —  had  I  been  willing." 

At  this  outburst  Ion's  anger  melted  in  mirth  —  this 
comedy  of  two  elderly  men's  bad  temper,  kept  his  lips 
quivering  —  even  as  the  two  now  passed  toward  the  tent 
opening. 

At  the  door,  Nirias'  fussiness  broke  forth  anew. 

"  Mago  —  the  bottle  of  unguent  —  have  you  thought  of 
that?  And  the  wine —  ?  " 

"Yes!  yes,  master  —  all  are  here."  Mago  pointed  to 
the  full  basket  he  held  —  to  the  cushions  a  slave  was  carry- 
ing. 

'  Then  —  for  goodness  sake  —  let  us  go  forth !  "  cried 
Crates,  his  impatience  now  gnawing  as  though  it  had  liv- 
ing fangs. 

But  Ion  had  flung  his  arm  about  his  father.     Under  the 


THE  POMPIC  WAY  139 

pressure   of    that    dear   clasp,    Crates'    anger   soon    melted 
away. 

Ion's  exhilerant  delight  was  found  contagious.  Crates' 
lips  presently  reflected  Ion's  smile  of  joyous  assurance. 
Ah-h,  this  dearest  of  sons!  What  a  nature  —  what  high 
courage,  what  serene  belief  in  the  god  of  chance,  and  his 
sure  blessing! 

"  We'll  take  a  turn  in  the  Altis  first,  dear  father,"  Ion 
cried,  as  he  swept  his  father  onward.  "  We'll  see  all  the 
more  distinguished  celebrities  —  and  then,  after  a  little, 
we'll  press  onward,  toward  the  Temple.  I  chose  a  place 
on  the  Temple  steps  I  think  we  can  surely  secure — ." 

"  You  think  of  all  things,  my  Ion  —  you  leave  nothing 
to  chance,"  cried  Crates,  in  parental  rapture  at  having 
fathered  such  a  prodigy. 

"Alas!  —  my  race  is  in  Hermes'  hands!"  mocked  Ion. 
"There's  no  outwitting  that  dear  god." 

"  But  surely  —  you  have  no  fears  — " 

His  words  were  lost.  He  was  borne  backwards,  toward 
Nirias.  A  company  of  youths,  dashing  downward,  had 
swept  Ion  before  them.  These  young  lads  had  their  arms 
about  each  other's  necks.  Their  heads,  arms,  and  necks 
were  garlanded  with  roses  and  jasmine.  They  shed  a 
delicious  fragrance,  as  they  made  their  way  half  dancing, 
half  gliding,  and  gaily  singing,  as  they  swept  onwards. 

The  five  slender  bodies,  swaying  harmoniously  to  the 
steps  of  an  improvised  dance,  were  as  beautiful  as  a  sculp- 
tured frieze. 

"Saw  you  those  lads?  One  of  them  reminded  me  of 
Ion  —  at  his  age.  "  Ah-h,  but  here  you  are!  "  Crates  cried 
out,  as  Ion  rejoined  his  party. 

"  Come  — "  Ion  cried,  his  voice  full  of  quivering  ex- 
citement, "  the  crowd  is  enormous,  this  year.  I  never  saw 


i4o         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

so  many  barbarians.  I  have  already  spoken  to  some  Persian 
courtiers  I  met,  at  court,  last  spring.  They  tell  me  they 
slept  on  deck  the  whole  of  the  voyage  —  the  ships  were  so 
full  mattresses  were  not  to  be  had,  for  a  king's  ransom." 

Crates  laughed,  and  nodded  responsive  joy,  at  the  pros- 
pect of  an  overcrowded  Olympia.  His  shrewd  eyes  took 
in  the  brilliant  scene. 

Like  a  great  theatre  awaiting  its  audience,  the  Altis  lay 
below,  white,  silent,  all  but  emptied  of  life.  Fenced  in  by 
its  walls  the  sacred  city  seemed  now  some  fabled  realm. 
The  population  of  its  massed  statues  lifted  warm,  flesh- 
tinted  arms,  or  wreaths,  or  olive  branches,  to  the  gods  shin- 
ing down,  from  the  deep  pediments ; —  the  fluttering  robes  of 
the  Victories,  the  mute  prayers  on  the  lips  of  suppliant 
contestants,  and  the  pressing  feet  of  racing  youths,  were 
fixed  in  immutable  impotency.  This  marble  multitude  was 
awaiting,  as  were  the  Temples,  the  great  altar,  the  shining 
rows  of  the  Zanes,  the  stately  line  of  the  Treasuries,  and 
the  glistening  gods,  for  the  entrance  of  living  throngs,  to 
give  to  Zeus  the  glad  worship  of  tongues  that  could  shout, 
and  of  hearts  that  could  swell,  as  the  Syrian  incense  rose. 


As  the  Altis  was  in  itself  the  very  centre  and  focal  point 
of  Olympia,  so  the  throng  now  assembling,  within  its  walls, 
seemed  to  present  to  Greek  eyes  a  summary  of  all  mankind. 
Pig-like  Arcadians,  with  coarse  faces  and  tangled  hair  were 
close  beside  god-like  limbed  young  Athenians,  whose  gar- 
lands and  bronze  skins  shone  as  did  those  of  the  statues  above 
them.  Wreathed  poets  and  musicians  stood  near  or  talked 
to  wrestlers  among  whom  were  some  whose  eyes,  set 
obliquely,  whose  long  ears,  and  bristling  hair,  gave  them  an 
animal  look.  Athletes,  whose  chaste  lines  of  feature  told  of 
long  months  of  hard  training,  naked,  with  but  a  garland 


THE  POMPIC  WAY  141 

for  ornament,  made  the  centre  of  a  group  of  Athenian 
gentlemen  whose  rich  robes,  carefully  placed  floral  adorn- 
ments, and  distinguished  bearing,  proclaimed  them  noble. 

Sicilians;  fierce-beaked  Jews;  curly-headed  Medes,  whose 
white  arms  and  legs  shone  out,  against  their  costly  robes 
thick  with  gold  and  silver  embroideries;  liquid-eyed 
Persians,  whose  arms  and  fingers  glistened  with  gems; 
Gauls,  with  locks  streaming  upon  their  shoulders  like  a 
moon-lighted  river;  and  Greeks  of  widely  contrasting  types, 
some  with  skins  blackened  by  Eastern  suns,  others  em- 
browned by  Italia's  kindlier  light,  yet  all  —  whether  white, 
black,  or  brown,  proving  alike  the  extent  of  Hellenic  do- 
minion and  its  adventurous  spirit  —  here  within  this  nar- 
row strip  of  holy  ground  were  men  from  every  clime  and 
country. 

Upon  them  all,  the  moon  poured  its  transfiguring  light. 
Whether  noble  or  slave,  whether  beautiful  or  hideous, 
forms  and  faces  were  softened,  were  etherealized. 

As  a  great  sculptor  gives  to  his  perfected  statue  a  pecu- 
liar bloom  —  some  quality  of  shining  only  flowers  and 
leaves  in  nature  show  —  so  this  moon  of  Hellas  touched 
the  statue-like  youths  and  young  men  with  a  celestial  lustre. 

Nirias  forgot  his  ailments.  Crates  even  forgot  his  Ion. 
They  walked  about,  with  eyes  wide  with  delight. 

"Look!  —  saw  you  ever  such  a  wonder?"  Nirias 
pointed  toward  a  white-wreathed  youth,  walking  past  their 
group. 

"Yes  —  he  is  very  beautiful.  But  see  —  yonder  is  Soc- 
rates," cried  Ion,  "  he  is  surrounded,  as  usual  —  even  here 
—  and  at  such  a  time,  by  a  cluster  of  beautiful  young  men. 
Look—" 

A  scene  as  familiar  in  the  Hellas  of  their  day,  as  it  has 
since  become  one  of  the  immortal  possessions  of  mankind, 
presented  itself. 


142         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

A  manly  form,  with  broad  shoulders,  whose  breast  was 
carelessly  bared,  a  loose  coarse  mantle  escaping  the  confin- 
ing clutch  of  the  relaxed  upper  arm  —  for  hands  and  arms 
were  being  constantly  used,  in  graceful,  effective  gesture  — 
this  was  the  famous  shape  standing  beneath  a  broad  plane 
tree.  The  face  was  partly  in  shadow.  When  it  emerged 
from  the  dimmer  tree  shade,  the  light  upon  the  face  did 
not  borrow  its  glow  from  the  moon's  splendour.  It  was 
a  face  rather  lighted  from  within,  than  from  without. 
Homely,  inharmonious  as  were  the  features,  so  radiant  were 
the  spiritual  forces,  the  whole  face  was  fused  and  blent,  into 
a  kind  of  sublimity.  The  sweetness,  serenity,  and  the  trained 
capacity  of  sustained  exaltation,  furnished  the  inward  light 
that  had  sublimated  the  coarser  physical  clay. 

The  group  about  Socrates  was  the  one  still,  separate  cir- 
cle in  all  that  sea  of  moving  thousands. 

Many,  as  they  passed  the  group,  stopped,  idly,  to  listen; 
some  were  caught  by  a  phrase,  or  by  some  startling  truth, 
presented  in  a  new,  unlooked-for  form,  and  were  held. 
Thus  the  circle  widened. 

"What  a  man!  A  true  sorcerer!  "  Crates  grunted,  dis- 
dainfully, turning  his  back  on  the  philosopher.  "  Wasting 
thus  the  time  of  our  youth !  —  filling  their  heads  with  non- 
sense and  impiety.  Ah  well  —  my  Ion  —  you  escaped  the 
contagion.  I  have  never  ceased  to  rejoice  I  sent  you  to 
Anaxagoras  — " 

"  Father,  father,  how  constant  is  your  hate !  "  was  Ion's 
smiling  answer.  Then  his  voice  rose  to  quickened  excite- 
ment, as  his  eyes  caught  sight  of  some  gentlemen  moving 
slowly,  toward  them.  "  See  —  the  lion  comes  —  and  the 
crowd  scatters,  as  before  its  king!  " 

Ion  and  Crates,  as  well  as  Nirias,  took  up  their  position. 
They  stood  facing  the  familiar  shape.  Others,  hearing  the 
cry  and  the  growing  buzz  of  expectation,  with  the  monkey- 


THE  POMPIC  WAY  143 

like,  imitative  nature  of  crowds,  crept,  also,  backwards, 
pressing  against  pedestals  and  tree-trunks. 

Between  the  human  aisles  thus  made,  a  kingly  form  of 
composed,  majestic  bearing  moved  with  a  certain  deliberate 
grace  of  leisure. 

All  Hellas  knew  that  princely  stride.  A  breathless  world 
of  curious,  eager-eyed  barbarians  pressed  beyond  the  close- 
packed  Hellenic  wall,  to  look  upon  Athens'  idol. 

Alcibiades  wore  his  festival  robes  with  the  same  negligent 
grace  with  which  he  trailed  his  purples  in  the  mud  of 
Athenian  streets.  He  swept  the  great  scene  with  measur- 
ing, yet  semi-indifferent  gaze.  Men,  statues,  garlanded  ath- 
letes, beautiful  human  forms  —  clothed,  like  the  nudity  of 
the  gods,  in  celestial  light  —  the  critical,  sensuous-lidded, 
haughty  eyes  swept  them  all,  as  though  the  Altis  were  but 
a  magnificent  setting  and  the  world  gathered  therein  an 
army,  assembled  that  he,  Alcibiades,  might  pass  the  multi- 
tude in  review. 

With  an  arm  swept  indolently  about  the  neck  of  Glau- 
cus,  Alcibiades  turned  to  Timoleon,  whose  dark  face  was 
beside  him. 

"  Look  Timoleon  —  yonder  is  the  new  beauty.  That 
little  Serapion  will  give  Hermes  himself  a  lesson  in  jeal- 
ousy. I  never  saw  lovely  modesty  and  young  beauty  as 
perfectly  wed !  " 

The  crowd  swallowed  his  words.  Serapion,  whoever  he 
might  be,  was  as  now  as  famous  for  comeliness  as  were 
Thebes  or  Ion  of  the  Piraeus,  for  having  horses  that  could 
run. 

It  was  with  a  certain  wonder  those  Athenian-born, 
among  the  mass  of  onlookers,  saw  the  great  leader  slow  his 
steps,  before  a  well  known  un-aristocratic  face.  A  few  of 
the  politically  well-informed  smiled,  as  they  watched  and 
heard  Alcibiades'  well-phrased  flatteries. 


144        ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Crates  of  the  Pirasus  and  his  son,  then,  were  of  large 
account,  in  Alcibiades'  clever  calculations !  Even  here,  even 
in  this  heady  festival  hour,  this  god  among  politicians  could 
remember  to  win  men,  by  showing  them  honour  before  the 
eyes  of  all. 

Alcibiades  had,  indeed,  stopped,  as  his  all-seeing  eyes  met 
Crates'  shrewd  flaming  glance,  and  Ion's  steady  gaze. 

Glaucus  and  Timoleon  smiled  their  greeting;  they  stood 
talking  to  Ion,  as  Alcibiades  lisped  his  flatteries. 

"Ah-h  here's  Crates!  Greeting,  dear  man!  And  to 
you,  too,  dear  Ion.  Only  this  morning  I  saw  your  four  — 
again.  I  took  a  turn  about  your  stalls.  That  Pollux  is  a 
horse  in  a  thousand !  —  he  and  Xenias  would  win  in  any 
race.  Yet  —  if  I  am  not  much  mistaken,  Thebes'  coursers 
will  give  your  car  a  hard  tussle  for  a  victory.  And  Corinth, 
too,  will  not  be  far  behind  — " 

Crates  could  find  no  words  to  prove  a  belief  in  his  own 
stable.  Stammering,  he  faltered  a  doubt  as  to  Thebes'  wis- 
dom in  choosing  as  reckless  a  driver  as  Porus  —  one  known 
to  be  as  tricky. 

Alcibiades  appeared  to  extract  a  certain  amount  of  amuse- 
ment out  of  the  Piraean's  terrorised  state,  and  then,  with 
an  insolent  haughtiness,  proceeded  to  ignore  him. 

"  Come,"  he  lisped  softly,  turning  to  Timoleon.  "  See 
—  yonder  stands  Socrates.  By  Minerva's  wise  eyes  —  even 
here  —  he  gathers  an  audience.  Let  us  hear  whether  he  is 
still  talking  about  holiness  and  the  soul  —  and  those  Sicil- 
ians—  where  are  they?  They  must  be  made  to  talk — " 

The  splendid  figure  resumed  its  graceful  walk.  One 
of  the  gods,  descended  from  his  pedestal,  and  turned  mor- 
tal, could  not  have  had  a  more  detached,  separate  air  of 
conscious  divinity. 

Yet  had  Olympia  but  known !  —  had  Athens  but  known ! 
Above  the  sweet-voiced  flatteries,  above  the  tinkle  of  cym- 


THE  POMPIC  WAY  145 

bals,  and  the  songs  of  lovely  youth,  the  grave  figure  of  an 
avenging  Fate  was  lifting  its  tragic  mumur! 

For  the  Sicilians  were  whispering  to  the  great  leader  and 
to  Timoleon  news  of  Syracuse  that  made  the  four  Athenian 
eyes  meet  and  glisten  as  they  met.  And  thus  amid  the 
sound  of  flutes,  of  festal  laughter,  and  of  dancing  steps,  the 
doom  of  Athens  was  sealed. 


On  the  broad  Temple  steps,  as  Ion  had  foretold,  the 
party  had  found  a  footing.  They  were  part  now  of  a 
spectacle  difficult  to  surpass,  for  beauty  and  effectiveness, 
even  in  Olympia. 

The  wide  steps  surrounding  the  great  Temple  of  Zeus 
were  packed  with  a  dense,  white  crowd.  The  graceful  folds 
of  tunics  and  flowing  himatia  gave  to  the  moving,  shifting 
multitude  an  indescribable  dignity.  Heads  and  breasts  were 
garlanded  with  thick  wreaths  and  ropes  of  flowers.  Thus 
these  worshippers  symbolized  their  union  with  their  god. 

Massed  thus,  this  festal  throng  seemed  to  form  the  liv- 
ing base  of  the  stern  Doric  Temple.  Aloft,  far  above  the 
crowd  of  worshippers,  the  gods  leaned  forth,  from  beneath 
their  heavy  cornice.  The  one  shape  missing  in  the  vast 
masculine  world  seemed  now,  silently,  with  still  calm,  to 
have  joined  the  multitude.  Out  of  the  stately  central 
group,  Hippodamia  stood;  she  fingered  her  veil,  as  though 
she  was  uplifting  it  in  the  nuptial  chamber. 

Meanwhile  the  moon  rose  higher  and  ever  higher. 
When  the  sky  was  fully  flooded  with  the  thick  golden  light, 
the  time  was  near. 

The  Pompic  Way  was  being  cleared.  The  great  mo- 
ment had  come.  There  was  an  instant  of  perfect,  awed 
silence. 


146        ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

So  still  was  the  crowd,  that,  in  the  clear  Elian  air,  a 
quick  ear  could  hear  the  slipping  of  the  river. 

Out  of  the  hushed  quiet,  silver-tongued  notes  suddenly 
pierced  the  sweet  silence.  From  end  to  end  of  the  sacred 
valley,  the  silver  trumpets  rang  out  their  brazen  chords. 

The  multitude  shook,  as  with  a  common  tremor.  The 
whole  Greek  world  thrilled,  as  one. 

As  the  sonorous  trumpets  shrilled  their  strains,  other  dear 
familiar  sounds  came  to  the  ears  of  these  listening  thousands. 
There  was  the  bite  upon  the  air  of  clinking  armour;  there 
was  the  soft  fall  of  hundreds  of  sandalled  feet,  and  the  snort 
and  dash  of  plunging  horses  told  every  waiting  worshipper 
the  line,  at  last,  had  formed. 

After  the  trumpets,  came  the  soaring  voices  of  chanting 
youths.  The  procession  was  moving  onward,  without  the 
walls.  Its  progress  could  be  distinctly  traced,  as  near  and 
ever  nearer  came  the  heavenly  voices,  blent  in  choral  har- 
monies. Those  heading  the  splendid  train  were  now  pass- 
ing the  tinted  columns  of  the  Heroon;  now  they  were  close 
to  the  tomb  of  Pelops;  next  mighty  Zeus,  in  his  great  tem- 
ple, would  hear  the  celestial  prayers  chanted  in  his  honour, 
as  he  sat  on  his  gilded  throne,  awaiting  the  worship  of  men. 

Nearer  and  nearer  swept  the  thrill-awakening  notes  of 
resonant  lyres  and  of  melodious  harps.  The  lark-like  sweep 
of  summer-tongued  flutes  rose,  shrilling,  above  less  piercing 
notes. 

The  shouts  of  those  without  the  walls,  these  glad  mur- 
murous acclamations,  rang  upon  the  ear  like  a  mighty  song 
sung  to  a  tumultuous  accompaniment.  Strong  men  felt 
their  breath  indrawn;  young  men  showed  awed  faces,  and 
even  to  barbarians  was  communicated  the  quick  contagion 
of  this  supreme  Greek  emotion. 


THE  POMPIC  WAY  147 

Timoleon  and  Glaucus  stood  beyond  the  Temple  steps. 
They  had  lost  Alcibiades,  at  the  very  moment  of  taking 
their  places.  He  had  murmured  something  about  one  of 
the  priests  having  begged  him  to  accept  a  seat  on  the  steps 
of  the  Treasury  of  Athena,  and  he  had  left  them.  Tim- 
oleon and  Glaucus  had  remained  where  they  were,  below 
the  tall  pedestal  of  Paionias's  Victory;  they  could  scarcely 
have  had  a  better  outlook. 

As  the  choir  rang  out  its  clear  harmonies,  both  the  young 
men  felt  the  common  thrill  pulsing  within. 

"  Timoleon  —  I  never  hear  that  hymn  —  but  I  am  once 
more  a  lad  —  innocent  and  pure  —  and  —  and  — "  Glaucus' 
emotion  overcame  him. 

Timoleon  flung  an  arm  about  his  friend's  shoulder.  At 
such  a  moment,  all  small  personal  feelings  were  over- 
whelmed by  the  mounting  tide  of  this  divine  experience. 
Timoleon,  also,  was  inexpressibly  moved,  stirred,  melted. 
Love  and  worship  are,  indeed,  singularly  akin,  he  thought. 

He  felt  Glaucus  suddenly  writhe,  beneath  his  grasp. 
With  an  angry  twitch,  he  was  turning,  he  was  crying,  up- 
ward, backward, 

"  Don't  crowd  —  keep  off  —  I  say  —  my  shoulders  are 
not  a  footstool  — " 

Then  his  voice  broke,  as  he  gurgled — "Well  —  of 
things  unheard  of,  to  slide  thus  down  a  pedestal!"  He 
laughed  as  he  lisped  his  protest. 

Ion  had  noiselessly  slipped  along  an  edge  of  the  broad 
base  of  the  pedestal,  thus  making  his  way  over  the  heads  of 
the  crowd.  He  was  now  beside  his  friends. 

The  crowd  gave  Ion  place.  A  murmur  rose  up,  as  he 
made  his  appearance.  Was  not  this  beautiful  young  man 
the  Pirasan  —  the  Ion  of  Piraeus  —  whose  horses  were  to 
run?  Admiring  eyes  ran  over  the  nobly-formed  features, 
the  broad,  slightly  panting  chest,  and  the  straight  limbs. 


i48         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Ion's  costly  festival  tunic,  his  few  but  perfect  gems,  and 
his  rich  garlands  made  his  coming  contest  bring  imagined 
victory.  Several  among  the  on-lookers  determined  to  in- 
crease their  bets. 

Ion  stood  between  his  friends.  Timoleon  gave  him  a 
scrutinizing  glance. 

"  So  you  are  not  to  mount  your  car,  after  all  that  has 
been  said  ?  "  Timoleon  narrowed  his  eyes.  For  this  had 
been  a  much-discussed  point. 

At  any  other  time  not  to  have  Ion  take  his  advice  would 
have  angered  him.  But  now  —  well  —  anger,  with  that 
music  swelling  up  —  with  the  gods  all  about,  gloriously 
lighted  —  with  Ion  looking  unusually  handsome,  and,  as 
usual,  his  eyes  beaming  trust  and  a  great  sweetness,  Timoleon 
found  even  irritation  pass  from  him. 

Ion  had  clasped  Timoleon's  firm  back;  he  was  pressing 
him,  with  loving  ardour.  "  Dear  Timoleon  —  you  must 
forgive  me.  I  felt  Glaucus,  and  not  we,  were  in  the  right 
about  this  matter.  You  would  not,  surely,  have  me  lower 
myself  before  the  eyes  of  all  ?  — " 

Beneath  the  power  of  Ion's  pleading  gaze,  Timoleon  felt 
saintly  qualities  grow  within.  "Indeed,  no!  dear  man  — 
you  were  right  —  and  I  wrong.  I  only  thought  of  the  ef- 
fect your  beauty  might  produce — " 

And  Ion  laughed,  drew  Caucus  and  Timoleon  the  closer, 
strained  his  long  neck  outward,  and  cried  softly,  joyously, 
'  They  are  coming  —  dear  men  —  they  are  turning  — 
even  now — " 

And  they,  and  all  about  them,  stood  rigid,  fixed. 

The  procession  had  entered  the  Altis. 

A  choir  of  youths  showing  the  pink  and  browns  of  per- 
fect bloom,  moved  slowly  into  the  moon's  full  light.  Their 
rounded  arms  were  uplifted.  From  beneath  their  festive 
wreaths  the  harmonious  features,  showing  no  defective  strain 


THE  POMPIC  WAY  149 

of  thought,  were  as  joyous  and  as  serene  as  those  of  the 
gods  they  invoked. 

Their  trained  steps  were  attuned  to  the  hymn  they 
chanted.  Behind  this  youthful  choir  swept  long  lines  of 
priests.  Their  ample  white  or  purple  robes  fell  in  statu- 
esque perfection.  Chosen  for  their  venerable  beauty,  many 
showed  Jove-like  features. 

The  Hellanadocae  followed.  The  warm  purples  of  these 
Elian  judges'  robes  made  deep  notes  of  contrasting  colours. 
These  umpires  stepped  with  proud  courage.  Conscious  of 
their  high  place,  in  this,  their  worship  of  the  gods,  they 
moved  with  stately,  noble  grace. 

Bursts  of  martial  music  preceded  groups  of  warriors  in 
shining  armour.  The  Pyrrhic  dance  was  skillfully  stepped 
by  youthful  Athenians  new  to  military  service,  yet  whose 
finished  athletic  training  gave  to  every  motion  and  gesture 
harmonious  beauty.  The  warlike  dance;  the  shining  em- 
browned limbs  below  the  burnished  shields;  the  scultured 
helmets  that  flashed  forth  the  figures  of  Mars,  of  Pallas 
Athene,  of  Hermes;  the  following  lines  of  light  that  flamed 
from  the  high-held  spears  and  the  spirited,  intoxicating 
strains  of  the  familiar  military  music  woke  to  sudden  frenzy 
the  whole  Greek  world.  Every  man  saw  passing  before  him 
the  battles,  the  hand-to-hand  death  struggles,  the  madness 
and  the  glory  of  war.  Strong  men  shook,  as  with  a  palsy; 
others  wept;  and  when  some  deep  rich  voice  lifted  a  true, 
pure  note,  in  unison  with  the  music,  such  a  shout  of  song 
burst  forth  as  shook  the  very  hills. 

Already  the  famous  Apolline  Hymn  was  filling  every  ear 
with  ecstacy.  Beautiful  youths,  their  curls  crisp  gold,  their 
forms  wonders  of  soft  grace,  specially  selected  for  their 
skill  in  dancing  and  posturing,  were  next  in  line,  presenting 
exquisite  poses,  and  intricate  steps. 

Behind  the  dancers  came  gorgeously  garmented  priests  — 


i5o         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

priests  of  Apollo  from  Delphi  and  Delos.  They  had  each' 
brought  from  these,  the  two  most  famous  shrines  of  the 
god,  the  best  and  most  noted  singers  and  dancers.  The 
whole  world  was  the  gainer  by  the  jealous  rivalry  between 
the  two  houses  of  the  gods,  to  prove  each  its  special  sanctu- 
ary the  superior.  The  gods  were  worshipped  as  they 
reigned  over  men  —  Immortals  fired  with  mortal  passions. 

The  flutter  of  excitement  and  curiosity  deepened.  An 
awed  religious  feeling  permeated  throughout  Olympia. 

Merely  to  look  upon  the  priests  of  the  Eleusinian  Mys- 
teries and  the  one  priestess  —  this  advancing  priestess  of 
Demeter  —  who  was  allowed  to  participate  in  the  Olym- 
pian ceremonies  —  merely  to  witness  as  thrill-giving  a  spec- 
tacle, men  would  have  come  from  the  ends  of  the  Greek 
world. 

Homer's  immortal  hymn  to  Demeter  rose  up,  in  strong 
choral  harmonies.  This  Eleusinian  choir  was  larger  than 
had  been  any  other.  The  orchestral  accompaniment  of 
lyres,  zithers,  flutes,  harps,  and  trumpets  made  the  air  thick 
with  the  soaring  flight  of  song,  and  of  carefully  studied  har- 
monic effects. 

Eyes  were  gladdened  by  a  long  line  of  the  dancing 
youths,  whose  symmetrical  motions  and  perfectly  matched 
steps  could  have  served,  at  any  moment  of  changeful  posture 
or  motion,  for  the  model  of  the  frieze  of  temples. 

A  space  separated  the  Priestess  and  her  dancing  hiero- 
phants.  The  moon  shone  bright  between.  Its  gold 
secerned  to  pave  the  way  with  glory  for  the  coming  of  the 
sorrowing  goddess. 

'  The  blue  robe  gathered  itself,  as  she  walked,  in  many 
folds  about  her  feet."  Out  of  the  folds,  the  ever-advanc- 
ing figure  of  the  priestess  moved.  Before  her,  even  as  the 
voices  hymned— "a  fragrant  odour  fell  from  her  raiment 
—  The  spirit  of  beauty  breathed  about  her  —  And  her  flesh 


THE  POMPIC  WAY  151 

shone  from  afar  " —  into  the  golden  pathway  of  light,  De- 
meter's  priestess  moved,  the  living  embodiment  of  her  whom 
she  served. 

As  the  lovely  priestess  passed,  men  breathed  deep  and 
long.  Tears  rose;  even  strong  men  were  not  ashamed  to 
let  them  fall.  For  Demeter  came  close,  in  her  innumer- 
able varied  phases,  to  the  heart  of  every  Greek.  Long  be- 
fore Homer,  the  husbandman,  the  farmer,  ancestors  of  those 
now  present,  had  worshipped  the  primitive  mother  of  all 
growth.  To  others,  as  her  blue  robe  paled  in  the  distance, 
the  priestess  had  evoked  the  memory  of  those  who  had 
passed  into  the  world  beyond;  thoughts  of  lost  children,  of 
dead  wives,  rose  up,  to  blot  out  joy.  And  others  felt  the 
stirring  of  a  more  mystic  union  with  the  deeper  forces  of 
life,  with  the  mysterious  enigmas  of  human  destiny. 

And  so,  beyond  and  above  the  flutes  and  the  melodious 
melting  of  young  voices  and  harps,  the  Greek  world  heard 
other  voices;  it  thrilled  to  this  passing  of  woman  —  who 
held,  like  Demeter,  within  her  bosom,  the  deep  sources  of 
life  and  love  and  a  belief  in  better  things. 

Scarcely  had  the  mighty  chorus  come  to  an  end,  when 
fresh  ringing  shouts  greeted  the  true  Olympian  contestants. 

The  runners,  who  on  the  morrow  were  to  open  the 
Games,  and  their  trainers,  were  followed  by  long  lines  of 
wrestlers,  boxers,  and  discus  throwers. 

Glaucus  made  a  swift  note,  on  his  tablet.  He  would 
change  his  bets.  The  favourite  runner  looked  better  now, 
seen  thus  in  full  clear  contrast  with  his  compeers,  than  he 
had  appeared  in  the  running  track. 

"  Wilt  venture  a  hundred  on  the  Megarian  —  my  Ion  ?  " 
he  lisped,  insinuatingly,  as  he  leaned  affectionately  nearer  to 
his  friend. 

"  Two  —  if  you  like,"  answered  Ion,  dreamily.  The 
favourites,  for  a  wonder,  had  left  him  cold.  The  passing 


i52         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

of  Demeter  had  stirred  a  deeper,  a  stronger  chord  of  feel- 
ing. Thought  had  taken  a  strange  flight.  Above  the  flutes 
and  the  dancing,  as  beyond  the  splendour  of  these  moving 
figures,  the  shadow  of  fate  seemed  to  have  fallen.  Some- 
thing —  a  fear  —  a  spectral  shape,  wearing  terrifying  looks, 
had  blotted  out,  for  an  instant,  all  Olympia.  The  strangest 
part  of  the  momentary  horror  was  his  seeing  Maia's  face 
loom,  adorably  kind  and  loving,  above  and  beyond  the  dread- 
ful spectre. 

Ion  shuddered,  shook  himself,  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  en- 
tered a  bet  with  Glaucus  of  such  fabulous  enormity  as  to 
make  even  Glaucus  cry  — "  You  are  mad  —  yet,  who  knows? 
But  here  come  the  chariots." 

Ion  quivered. —  Yes  —  Glaucus  had  heard  aright.  The 
jingle  of  moving  wheels,  the  plunging,  snorting,  and  deep 
breathing  of  restive  steeds  now  filled  the  air.  Ion  was  con- 
scious of  quick  trembling  —  but  he  managed  to  keep  his 
face  firm. 

A  long  murmurous  wave  swept  the  packed  crowds. 
Heads,  far  as  one  could  see,  were  stretched  above  other  heads ; 
every  eye  that  could  catch  sight  of  the  cars  was  wide  with 
delight.  The  most  exciting  moment  of  the  long  procession 
was  culminating. 

First  Thebes,  then  Corinth,  then  Syracuse  and  some  of 
the  lesser  cities'  chariots  passed,  one  after  the  other.  The 
burnished  cars,  with  their  perfectly  adjusted  running  gear, 
the  grace  of  the  charioteers,  as  they  stood,  erect,  gently 
swaying  to  the  motion  of  the  chariot,  and  the  contrasting 
points  of  beauty  in  the  teams,  made  that  triple  combination 
of  men,  horses,  and  gleaming  chariots  work  its  ever-stir- 
ring enthusiasm. 

A  break  in  the  passing  of  the  cars  had  occurred.  Out  of 
a  pause,  in  which  a  quick  stillness  came,  a  sudden  distant 
ripple,  as  of  subdued  laughter,  rose  up. 


THE  POMPIC  WAY  153 

Ion,  Timoleon,  Glaucus,  as  did  those  about  them,  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes,  to  ask  of  the  other  the  reason  of  this 
strange  sound.  What  had  happened?  Was  it  delight  or 
was  it  mockery  —  this  laughter?  Ion  felt  premonitory 
shivers.  He  was  certain  this  amazing  growing  mirth  was 
occasioned,  in  some  way,  by  his  car.  It  was  the  very  mo- 
ment when  his  own  chariot  should  pass  —  its  place  in  the 
procession  had  long  since  been  settled. 

"Timoleon  —  Glaucus  —  see  you  aught  the  matter?" 
Ion  felt  his  vision  was  suddenly  clouded.  So  great  was  his 
emotion,  his  eyes  no  longer  seemed  to  see  —  his  ears  heard 
no  longer  aright. 

Timoleon  and  Glaucus,  for  all  answer,  were,  also,  seen  to 
be  struggling  with  laughter. 

"  Look,  dear  boy  —  Pollux,  also,  honours  the  gods  with 
dancing!  "  cried  Glaucus,  his  voice  shaken  with  a  tremor  of 

I  delight. 

Ion's  chill  of  fear  no  longer  shook  him.  A  warm,  sweet 
flood  of  joy  suffused  his  frame.  His  chariot  was  now  in 
full  view.  Those  near  by,  as  they  caught  sight  of  that 
which  had  aroused  such  universal  merriment,  in  their  turn, 
broke  forth  into  muffled  applause.  Ion  caught  the  percepti- 
ble swell  of  pleased,  delighted  chuckling,  the  quick  Greek 
joy  in  horses. 

The  chariot,  he  noted,  had  never  run  more  smoothly. 
The  stallions  moved  with  spirited,  rhythmic  steps.  Their 
coats  glittered  and  glistened.  The  small  shapely  heads, 
short  muscular  necks,  powerful  shoulders,  and  haunches 
tapering  to  the  slender  hocks,  each  one  of  the  four  was  a 
model  of  equine  perfection. 

Ion  breathed  short,  joyous  breaths.  Even  he  could  not 
have  wished  his  "  four  "  to  make  a  braver  show. 

As  Pollux  passed,  Ion's  smothered  shout  burst  from  him. 
As  though  the  sensitive  creature  had  conscious  knowledge 


154         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

of  the  great  moment,  of  the  true  inner  meaning  of  the  festal 
occasion,  with  delicate,  graceful  steps,  Pollux  was  danc- 
ing. The  freedom  of  his  motions  was  practically  unhin- 
dered. Held  by  a  loose  rein,  as  the  nigh  leader,  Pollux  was 
left  free  to  practice  his  steps.  Before  his  great  audience, 
Pollus  continued  to  perform,  with  wondrous  skill  and  dex- 
terity. Now  curvetting,  now  prancing,  now  lifting  hind 
legs  or  fore  legs,  Pollux  kept  step  with  his  fellows,  yet  prac- 
tised, with  perfect  freedom  and  surety,  his  graceful  evolu- 
tions. 

"  Provided  he  runs  as  well  as  he  dances  —  yonder  stallion 
has  already  won  his  master's  race,"  cried  a  stalwart  Thessal- 
ian,  with  eyes  trained  to  grasp  all  the  points  of  a  horse. 

Ion  longed  to  answer.  But  his  chariot  had  now  passed. 
Other  private  cars  were  calling  forth  admiring  comments. 
Ion  was  forced  to  admit,  as  a  new  splendid  quadriga  slowly 
stepped  past,  the  beauty  of  the  Libyan  chariot. 

As  the  last  car  passed,  Ion  felt  a  conscious  drop  of  in- 
terest. The  great  moment  of  the  pageant,  for  him,  at 
least,  had  been  lived  through.  The  glory  of  the  spectacle 
seemed  to  have  led  up  but  to  the  appearance  of  his  quadriga. 
What  followed  could  be  but  anti-climax.  Could  he  man- 
age to  escape?  Would  the  crowds  let  him  pass? 

Glaucus  and  Timoleon  turned,  simultaneously,  with  won- 
der in  their  eyes. 

"  What  in  heaven's  name  possesses  thee  ?  "  cried  Timoleon, 
as  He  watched  Ion's  desperate  efforts  to  force  a  passage. 

"I —  I  —  would  find  my  father,"  said  Ion,  rather  at  a 
loss  for  adequate  excuse.  It  did  indeed  seem  poor  taste  to 
turn  one's  back  on  the  procession,  once  his  quadriga  had 
passed.  Yet,  the  bare  truth  was,  now  that  he  had  seen  the 
chariots,  Ion  was  eager  to  be  gone.  Elsewhere  there 
was  promised  better  amusement.  In  yonder  woods  — 
across  the  river  — at  the  very  thought  of  what  awaited 


THE  POMPIC  WAY  155 

him,  Ion  felt  his  breath  hot  upon  his  lips.  A  growing, 
gnawing  impatience  was  upon  him.  It  angered  him  to  see 
the  thick  unyielding  mass  behind,  before  him  —  at  every 
point  men  were  massed  as  thick  as  figs  in  a  basket.  None 
would  yield  him  space. 

Ion  found  himself,  indeed,  forced  to  wait. 

And  then,  suddenly,  once  more  the  glow  and  stir  of  the 
Olympian  ecstacy  touched  him,  caught,  and  held  him.  He 
was  filled  anew  with  a  divine  emotion  —  he  was  one  with 
his  fellows,  in  this  moment  of  mounting  exaltation. 

Hymns  and  paeons  had  thickened  upon  the  stilled  air. 
The  sacred  bull  was  being  led  onward,  to  the  great  altar. 
White  as  snow,  its  gilded  horns  were  roped  with  garlands. 

From  temple  steps  and  terrace  heights,  the  multitude  had 
now  slowly  swept  downward,  to  move  into  line.  With  up- 
lifted arms,  with  trained,  tuneful  voices,  the  whole  Greek 
world  burst  into  song,  as  they  marched.  The  mighty  hymn 
was  swung  aloft,  upon  the  breath  of  thousands,  and  the  lis- 
tening hills  echoed  the  praise  of  this  world  of  men,  to  Zeus, 
mighty  Saviour  of  Men. 

Superb,  triumphant,  the  rolling  sonorous  paeon  smote 
upon  the  ears  of  the  god.  In  the  golden  nimbus  of  the 
light  that  poured  through  the  hypzethral  opening  of  his 
Temple,  Zeus  sat,  in  his  separate  divine  calm,  clothed  in 
kingly  vestment.  In  his  bright  courts,  enthroned  in  splen- 
dour, bland,  compassionate,  divinely  remote  from  human 
weaknesses,  Zeus  heard  and  waited  —  waited  as  gods  wait, 
for  this  worship  to  roll  on  through  the  long  aisles  of  yet 
unbuilt  temples. 

The  great  altar,  once  crimsoned  with  the  blood  of  the 
victim,  incense  rose,  a  dense  scented  column. 

A  new  madness  next  possessed  the  multitude.  The  paeon 
scarcely  ended,  and  the  crowd,  with  common  impulse,  made 
a  wild,  frenzied  rush  for  the  Stadion.  To  sit  out  the  night 


156         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

—  to  be  sure  of  a  seat  on  the  marble  benches  of  the  great 
building, —  these  struggling  thousands  would  have  out- 
stepped their  nearest  and  dearest  to  gain  a  coveted  place 
from  which  to  view  the  runners'  race,  at  dawn. 

Ion  was  beside  himself  with  impatience  —  for  his  own 
great  moment  had  come, —  yet  he  took  time  to  look  about 
him  —  where  had  Nirias  —  where  had  his  father  gone? 
They  were  nowhere  to  be  seen.  He  then  could  fly ! 

At  last  —  at  last  he  was  free! 

As  he  ran,  his  heart  beat  in  wild  pulsations.  The  great 
emotions  of  the  night,  the  chants  and  the  mighty  paeon, 
throbbed  still,  upon  his  responsive  ear.  Yet,  louder  than 
twanging  lyres  or  tuneful  hymn,  sang  the  voice  of  flutter- 
ing hope.  The  strength  of  the  great  longing  that  shook 
him,  made  the  glory  of  beholding  even  to-morrow's  race, 
seem  a  secondary  matter,  to  reaching  the  banks  of  the 
Alpheios  in  time. 


Chapter  XIV 

A   NIGHT  IN    ARCADIA 

ION'S  way  took  him  through  the  moonlit  streets  of  the  great 
Fair.  They  were  as  still  as  a  deserted  city.  The  breath- 
less quiet  of  stalls  and  bazaars,  after  the  prodigious  anima- 
tion of  the  Altis,  made  Ion's  beating  heart  throb  the  louder. 
He  had  passed  into  an  unreal,  spiritual  world. 

Radiant-eyed  Victories  held  out  bronze  crowns,  to  his 
hope  and  longing.  Steeds  plunging  in  the  soft  air,  taking 
flight  from  marble  base,  lured  him  to  remember  that  the 
crown  of  wild  olive  was  above  Aphrodite's  giving. 

But  to  Ion's  hot  impatience,  every  looming  pedestal  was 
an  obstacle  as  huge  as  a  mountain.  One  thought  —  one 
ache  of  passionate  anxiety  possessed  him ;  would  Maia  have 
come?  Had  Persia  found  her?  Would  she  have  managed 
to  escape  the  Pisan  woman's  vigilance? 

At  the  river  bank  Ion  stood  fixed,  staring,  his  hot  blood 
turning  cold  in  the  warmth  of  the  night.  He  could  not 
believe  his  eyes.  The  Alpheios  was  as  deserted  as  was  the 
City  of  the  Fair! 

Ion  sent  his  eyes  wide  and  far.  No  moving  boat,  not 
even  a  motionless  shallop  was  to  be  discerned.  Ion's  quick 
breath  seemed  frozen  upon  his  lips.  Until  he  was  con- 
fronted with  the  silent  languor  of  the  scarce  rippling  river, 
he  had  not  measured  the  true  depth,  the  fulness  of  his  great 
longing. 

Not  to  see  Maia,  on  this  night  of  nights,  not  to  know 
her  his,  not  to  consecrate  this,  their  mighty  love  —  Ion 
knew  at  last,  as  he  stood,  still,  shuddering,  fixed  in  the  stiff- 

157 


i58         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

ened  agony  of  disappointment  that  Maia  beside  him  in  this 
silver  night,  and  Maia  housed  and  captive,  meant  the  proud 
exultant  wearing  of  the  crown  of  all  life  held  as  best,  or 
life  to  flow  on,  meaningless,  void,  carrying  to  lesser  things 
the  cruel  knowledge  of  having  missed  the  central  jewel  in 
the  crown  of  joy. 

Never  before  in  his  varied  love-life  had  Ion  felt  as  Maia 
had  made  him,  feel  —  toward  love  —  toward  life.  Not 
knowing  her,  he  had  lived  his  life  lightly,  almost  aimlessly, 
letting  the  gay  stream  carry  him  onward.  Once  seen  and 
loved,  all  life  seemed  concentrated  in  that  one  single  form 

—  in  that  soul,  whose  divine  qualities  were  laced  with  fiery 
mortal  passion! 

The  knowledge  of  this,  rose  before  Ion,  as  he  faced  his 
slow  acceptance  of  defeat.  For  there  could  be  no  other 
meeting.  Were  the  gods  to  refuse  to  bless  their  union  now 

—  But  Ion's  soul  —  courageous  as  it  was,  could  not  face 
the  awful   possibility.     He   felt,   he   knew   that   he   would 
pace  on  and  on,  till  dawn.     He  would  outwatch  the  stars. 

Now  up,  now  down  he  strode.  The  silent  river  barely 
lisped  its  feeble  paces.  The  opposite  Arcadian  hills  bloomed 
and  glowed,  as  though  to  mock  his  hope.  Save  for  the  dis- 
tant whir  of  Olympia  —  the  world  was  very  still. 

Out  of  the  stillness,  a  faint,  far-away  splash  was  heard. 
Could  it  be  Persia?  Was  he  steering  his  boat  —  had  the 
moment  of  moments  actually  come?  In  the  swift  revulsion 
of  feeling,  Ion  felt  himself  grow  faint.  Lest  he  fall  —  so 
mighty  was  this  tremor  of  returning  hope  —  he  grasped  at 
the  base  of  a  near-standing  pedestal. 

As  Ion  strained  his  neck,  to  catch  the  first  sight  of  the 
advancing  boat,  his  wild  eyes  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  statue 
above  him.  With  a  shout  of  delighted  rapture  Ion  flung  his 
arms  about  the  divinity.  His  cry  rang  up.  It  was  pseon 
and  prayer  in  one. 


A  NIGHT  IN  ARCADIA  159 

"Beloved  Eros!  I  take  thy  meaning — and  thou  shalt 
be  duly  worshipped.  Oh  son  of  that  divinest  of  women  — 
be  merciful!  Since  thou  hast  pierced  our  hearts,  be  thou 
our  advocate!  Let  Aphrodite  open  her  bright  courts! 
Ah-h  —  he  comes  —  I  hear  him !  Thou  art  a  god  indeed !  " 

In  the  glad  tumult  of  his  joy,  Ion  had  talked  to  the  dear 
god  as  he  might  to  a  comrade.  Eros'  dimples  seemed  to 
deepen.  Ion  felt  certain  the  palpable  flutter  —  the  divine 
presence  was  beating  upon  the  air.  What  his  eyes  were  be- 
holding made  every  sense  quiver  with  renewed  lust  of  life. 

Below  the  golden  Arcadian  hills,  a  boat  and  a  man  were 
slipping.  The  oars,  in  rythmical  beat,  swept  the  shallow 
waters.  Persia's  great  eyes  shone  above  his  craft,  the  one 
moving,  living  feature  of  the  still  landscape. 

Across  the  river  Ion's  shout  rang  out. 

"You  are  alone!  She  is  not  —  you  have  not  found 
her?" 

The  hills  echoed  back  the  quiver  of  the  sonorous  Greek 
syllables,  that  seemed  to  turn  to  bronze,  as  they  struck  upon 
the  air. 

Persia's  liquid  speech  carried  along  the  carrying  waters. 

"  Yes  —  dear  Master  —  she  is  waiting.  She  is  close  to 
the  glen.  I  am  to  bring  you !  " 

The  oars  splashed  anew.  Persia's  skilled  feathering  made 
the  drip,  drip  from  the  oar  blades  appear  to  repeat  his 
sybillant  phrases. 

Along  the  hills,  Ion's  glad  cry  circled,  to  die  in  dim 
moonlit  groves.  Once  more,  he  flung  his  arms  about  Eros' 
dimpled  feet. 

Presently,  with  Ion  seated  before  him,  Persia  told  his  mas- 
ter how  Maia  had  evaded  detection.  The  household,  as 
though  solely  to  thwart  her  purpose  had  insisted  on  drag- 
ging her  to  a  certain  hill-slope,  close  to  Pisa.  From  that 
elevation,  certain  features  of  the  great  Procession  could,  it 


160         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

appeared,  be  watched.  The  women  at  least,  could  hear  the 
louder  hymns,  and  the  shouting. 

Maia  had  pled  fatigue.  As  soon  as  the  farm  had  been 
emptied,  she  had  fled.  For  saftey's  sake  she  was  still  hidden. 
In  a  certain  grove,  above  Pisa,  she  had  found  enveloping 
thickets  and  many  trees. 

Ion  was  not  wholly  within  his  world,  as  he  listened. 
Though  every  quick  stroke  bore  him  nearer  —  closer  —  it 
seemed  long  eternities  until  Persia  turned  the  boat,  until 
its  keel  struck  along  the  smooth  sands,  to  come  to  a  rest. 

At  a  bound,  Ion  was  upon  the  shore.  He  recovered  suf- 
ficient sanity,  to  shout  back: — "Remember  —  there  is  not 
a  moment  to  be  lost.  All  is  in  readiness  —  Mago  is  re- 
turned —  is  awaiting  you  —  to  dress  you :  The  signal  — 
to-morrow  —  is  to  be  a  purple  handkerchief — "  He  was 
running,  as  he  cried  the  words.  For  Persia,  disguised,  was 
to  keep  Ion's  place  for  him  in  the  Stadion.  A  slave,  Persia 
had  no  right  to  a  place  in  the  vast  enclosure. 

"I  remember!  And  may  the  gods  of  thy  fathers  bless 
thee !  For  thou  goest  to  mate  with  a  divinity !  "  The  first 
two  words  were  in  answer  to  Ion's  command.  The  latter 
sentences  were  murmured  in  Arabic,  to  the  stars.  For 
Persia,  though  a  slave,  was  also  a  man,  and  by  birth  he  was 
a  prince.  He  had  carried  into  bondage  a  long  inherited 
knowledge  of  the  points  of  beauty  in  women. 

Ion  had  not  wandered  far,  before  he  found  her.  Maia 
was  standing,  or  rather  she  was  leaning,  against  a  broad 
tree-trunk. 

Motionless,  pale  with  expectancy,  her  lips  parted,  Maia 
seemed  a  fixed,  integral  part  of  this  world  of  gold.  The 
wide  branches  above  her  shadowed  her  form.  Yet  so  thick 
was  the  moonlight,  Maia's  shape,  like  a  true  divinity,  was 
lighted  from  above. 

As  she  stood,  still,  breathless,  waiting,  a  glad  exultant 


A  NIGHT  IN  ARCADIA  161 

cry  burst  from  her  lips.  Yet  Ion  could  not  yet  clasp  — 
could  not  —  scarce  dared,  to  claim  her  embrace. 

For  Maia  was  changed.  The  Maia  of  the  day  before 
yesterday  was  gone.  The  look  of  the  hetasrae  was  lost  — 
and  all  semblance  to  those  her  sisters.  This  Maia  had  the 
state  and  the  dignity  of  one  nobly-born.  A  look  of  sweet 
chastity  —  such  a  mien  as  a  maiden  might  wear  who,  like 
Hippodamia,  was  uplifting  her  bridal  veil,  in  the  nuptial 
chamber,  shone  from  the  pure,  perfect  features. 

This  look  held  Ion  —  it  made  him  tremble.  The  woman 
he  had  come  to  capture  —  to  kiss  onward  to  quick  bliss  — 
this  woman  was  no  longer  before  him.  The  Maia  who  now 
leant  forward,  whose  exquisite  pallor  imprinted  a  singular 
purity  upon  the  quivering  features  —  this  Maia  he  scarce 
dared  as  yet  claim. 

It  was  Maia  who  drew  her  lover  to  her.  And  the  third 
that  had  stepped  between,  she  named,  as  their  lips  finally 
parted. 

"  Ah-h  —  you  draw  my  very  soul  forth !  "  .  It  was  in- 
deed this  new-born,  this  heavenly  spirit  that  seemed  to  take 
possession  —  to  reveal  itself,  in  wondrous  ways,  as  though 
to  show  to  Ion  the  immortal  part  of  this  lovely  mortal  he 
had  won  as  his. 

This  birth  of  her  soul  had  touched  Maia  with  its  divine 
imprint.  The  grosser  elements  had  dropped  away.  Her 
beautiful  face  seemed  purged  of  every  earthly  impurity. 
The  moon's  golden  day  showed  it  illumined,  from  within. 

Maia's  inward  feeling  was,  that  her  soul  seemed  a  bird, 
and  this  bird  had  suddenly  found  its  voice  —  and  sang. 
How  delicious  —  this  singing  of  one's  soul!  How  its  joy- 
ous notes  harmonized  the  whole  being.  Surely  never  be- 
fore, Maia  said,  low,  in  tremulous  tones  —  as  something 
of  this  she  told  to  Ion  —  never  before  this  moment  had 
she  truly  lived.  The  dead  part  of  her  —  that  which  hard 


162         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

toil,  and  disappointment,  and  despair,  had  all  but  killed,  was 
now  alive. 

The  very  intensity  of  her  feeling  lent  its  calm  of  sus- 
tained passionate  exaltation,  to  Maia's  every  action.  Gath- 
ering her  scarf  and  an  instrument  of  some  sort  to  her  arm, 
she  stretched  forth  her  hand.  It  was  the  compelling  ges- 
ture a  goddess  might  have  used,  in  summoning  a  mortal 
lover  to  follow,  where  she  led. 

"  Do  you  know  the  wood  ?  "  she  asked.  And  she  smiled, 
with  adorable  simplicity,  into  Ion's  eyes,  as  though  they  had 
come  solely  to  explore  its  beauty. 

"  No but  lead  on  —  Beloved  —  you  are  one  with  it ! 

—  your  sisters,  the  woodland  Oreades  must  be  jealous  — 

The  music  of  Maia's  laughter  filled  the  still  woods. 
Hand  in  hand  they  wandered  on.  Ion  was  content.  For 
goddess  though  she  seemed,  yet  was  divine  Maia  mortal  — 
and  near. 

A  part  of  the  night,  indeed,  did  Maia  seem.  The  chiton 
she  had  chosen  was  the  short  Doric  one.  Some  threads  of 
silver  shone  from  out  the  clinging  folds.  Her  high-placed 
girdle  was,  also,  of  shining  silver.  The  slimness  of  her 
snowy  ankles  was  outlined  by  bands  of  the  same  pure  metal. 
At  every  turn  of  her  rounded  perfect  shape,  silvery  rings 
circled  about  her,  making  her  seem  mysteriously  engirdled 
with  a  something  celestial  —  under  divine  protection  of  some 
loving  god. 

Something  whiter  than  Maia  shone  out  suddenly  before 
them.  An  altar  of  snow,  glistening  in  the  moon's  light, 
stood  in  their  path.  Above  the  altar,  shrined  in  its  marble 
niche,  with  his  shapely  fingers  touching  his  lyre,  Apollo's 
benign  features  beamed  forth.  His  shrine  was  happily 
placed.  A  circle  of  tall  firs  and  poplars  surrounded  it. 

With  light,  swift  impulse  Maia  swept  below  the  god. 
With  uplifted  hands  she  was  praying  to  him.  The  prayer 
was  ended  before  Ion  had  reached  her  side. 


A  NIGHT  IN  ARCADIA  163 

"Shall  I  truly  worship  him?  Would  you  care  to  see 
me  dance  ?  " 

Before  Ion's  answer  was  whispered,  Maia  was  circling 
the  altar.  She  had  opened  the  long  filmy  scarf  that  had 
been  wound  about  her  shoulders.  Spreading  it  to  its  fullest 
extent,  it  took  the  rhythm  and  measure  of  her  steps. 

Ion  drew  in  his  breath.  His  delight  in  this  new  charm 
made  a  fresh  joy  leap  up. 

With  the  art  of  one  who  had  been  born  and  bred  in  the 
mysteries  of  the  dance  motion,  Maia  was  circling  the  altar. 
Her  steps  were  now  wide,  free,  swift  as  wind;  one  of 
the  Muses  must  step  thus,  when  Apollo  held  his  airy  court, 
summoning  his  train.  The  fleecy  mantle  was  a  cloud  out 
of  which  grew  grace  and  symmetry ; —  the  next  instant  the 
mortal  was  lost  —  a  dim  shadowy  form  was  melting  behind 
tree-trunks.  When  Maia  emerged,  a  grave  priestess, 
crowned  and  garlanded,  moved  slowly  into  the  light,  an 
Apolline  hymn  upon  her  lips. 

Ion's  ears  were  flooded  with  Maia's  airy  flight  of  song. 
As  piously  as  she  paced  her  steps,  her  new-born  soul  seemed 
escaping  through  her  exquisite  notes. 

All  the  forest  world  bent  to  listen.  The  faint  wind  had 
died.  Tree-branches  and  leaves  were  motionless.  The 
drowsy  night's  hum  of  cicada,  of  rustling  birds,  was  stilled. 
The  very  air  seemed  to  hold  its  breath,  lest  one  of  the  notes 
be  lost. 

Lark-like  —  pure  yet  impassioned,  the  hymn  soared  up 
to  the  golden  sky  vault. 

Maia,  her  chiton  lengthened  by  some  mysterious  process, 
wound  and  rewound  her  stately  steps,  about  Apollo's  altar. 

Ion's  ache  of  longing  was  suddenly,  miraculously  stilled. 
He  slowed  his  steps  —  he  breathed  softly.  His  soul  was 
flooded  with  delight.  Maia's  voice  entered  into  it,  pene- 
trated the  innermost  recesses  of  his  being.  As  he  moved 


164         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

toward  her,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe,  lest  he  lose  a  note, 
Ion  felt  a  new  rapture,  a  fresh  wave  of  adoration.  What 
ravishing  trills!  what  a  powder  of  expression!  what  soul- 
reaching  sadness!  what  lark-like  thrilling  notes  of  joy! 

When  she  had  done,  she  trilled  her  notes  close  to  Ion. 
The  joyous  hymn  came  to  its  finish,  upon  her  lover's  lips. 

As  suddenly  as  she  had  swung  her  voice  aloft,  as  quickly 
she  released  herself.  There  seemed  a  dread  of  prolonging 
the  embrace  —  of  breaking  the  spell  of  the  night. 

"  Come  —  dearest  —  I  hear  water  coursing  —  I  am 
athirst." 

Once  again  she  led  him  onward. 

A  murmuring  stream  was  indeed  flowing  somewhere  — 
its  drowsy  trickle  pealed  faint  notes  upon  the  stilled  air. 

This  moment  of  quiet  was  the  nightingale's  chance.  As 
though  attempting  to  outrival  Maia's  trills,  these  choristers 
of  the  night  burst  forth.  Maia  and  Ion  moved  on  through 
the  music-flooded  grove. 

Pan's  goat-like  features  startled  them,  at  a  turn  above 
the  stream.  He  held  his  syrinx  in  between  his  long  fingers. 
Thus  sang  he,  all  the  livelong  day  and  night,  to  this  Arca- 
dian rivulet. 

"Oh  —  it  is  divine  —  every  god  is  near!  See  —  how  he 
smiles!"  and  Maia  threw  her  arms  about  the  dear,  mys- 
terious deity.  She  leant  her  pliant  grace,  in  loving  fond- 
ness, against  the  base,  as  Ion  bent  to  the  stream  to  catch 
its  silvery  drops  in  a  cup  he  had  fashioned,  out  of  a  broad 
oak  leaf. 

When  their  thirst  was  assuaged,  once  more  they  took  up 
their  journey.  The  giant  oaks,  the  towering  firs,  and  the 
temple  stillness  of  the  night  seemed  awaiting  them.  The 
mounting  hymn  of  their  love  sang  upon  the  airy  spaces;  it 
breathed  forth  the  echo  of  a  love  so  perfect  and  complete, 
it  scarce  needed  crowning. 


A  NIGHT  IN  ARCADIA  165 

"  Art  happy  —  as  I  am  —  dear  Ion  ?  "  Mala  asked,  her 
eyes  raining  joy. 

"  I  am  indeed  crowned  —  at  last,  beloved,"  Ion  mur- 
mured, drawing  the  dear  shape  closer. 

After  a  moment  he  lipped  — 

"  Drink  with  me  —  be  young  with  me, 

"  Love  with  me,  be  mad  with  my  madness, 

"  And  I  will  be  serious  with  you  in  your  seriousness." 

'  'Tis  the  cycle  of  life  —  of  true  love  —  it  has  always 
seemed  to  me.  And  that,  you,  alone,  among  all  women, 
can  be  trusted  to  complete.  Oh  Maia!  was  there  ever  such 
a  woman?  Have  others  loved  thus  —  been  content,  as  we 
are,  to  walk  on  —  and  on  ?  —  But  Oh !  "  he  suddenly 
flamed,  as,  trembling  he  clutched  Maia  fiercely  to  him  — 

Gently,  persistently,  she  held  him  away.  As  though 
there  were  an  actual  presence  in  this  golden  world,  one  to 
hold  passion  at  bay,  she  whispered  hurriedly,  fearfully: — 

"  Hush-h  —  see  —  yonder  lies  Endymion.  Step  softly  — 
We  must  not  wake  him — " 

Through  the  opening  of  giant  walnuts,  Ion  espied  a  wide 
grassy  stretch.  Maia  was  tip-toeing  towards  the  lawn. 

Upon  the  greensward,  curled  in  sleep,  lay  the  curved 
woolly  forms  of  a  sheep  fold.  In  their  midst,  with  his 
curls  and  face  to  the  moon,  a  lad  lay  stretched,  his  staff  be- 
side him.  In  his  rude  young  strength,  his  features  wore  a 
look  of  happy  expectancy  —  for  his  lips  were  wreathed  with 
a  smile.  The  shepherd  lad  might,  indeed,  be  he  whom  the 
chaste  goddess  had  loved. 

"  Sh-h  —  stir  not  —  I  must  kiss  him  —  for  Diana's 
sake,"  whispered  Maia,  a  roguish  light  in  her  eyes. 

Ion  sprang  forward.  But  he  was  too  late,  Light  as  air, 
Maia's  kiss  had  fallen  upon  the  boyish  brow. 


166         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

"  Come !  quick,"  Maia  was  crying,  "  he  may  awake !  " 
And  she  clasped  Ion's  hand  —  she  was  speeding  across  the 
slope  of  the  high  grasses. 

Once,  indeed,  she  turned.  And  at  what  she  saw,  her 
crystal  laughter  burst  upon  the  startled  air. 

For  the  shepherd  had  risen.  He  was  sitting  upright. 
His  heavy  sleep  was  still  weighing  down  eyelids  and  senses. 
Yet  he  groped  for  his  staff.  And  he  was  looking  Diana's 
orb  full  in  the  face  —  as  though  the  moon,  at  least,  was  to 
assure  him  he  had  not  been  dreaming. 

"  See  how  you  have  frightened  the  lad !  Be  contented 
—  you  have  done  mischief  enough.  Now  sing  me  one  more 
song  —  and  — " 

"  Oh  Ion,"  gasped  Maia,  cutting  his  words  in  two,  "  Tell 
me,  dearest,  dost  know  the  great  song  —  Sophocles'  ode 
'  Great  Unconquerable  Love  '  ?  " 

Ion  nodded  his  affirmative.  Maia  then  swept  her  arm 
upon  her  lover's  shoulder.  Walking  thus,  and  singing  to- 
gether, Maia  felt  would  make  the  last,  the  one  perfect  touch. 
The  edifice  of  joy  would  then  be  all  but  complete. 

''Then  let  us  sing  it.  I  will  sing  the  strophe,  and  you 
join  in  the  anti-strophe." 

As  though  she  had  come,  in  some  miraculous  manner,  to 
greet  her  worshippers,  a  rude  shrine,  with  an  early  image 
of  Aphrodite  stood  at  their  left.  Insensibly  both  turned  to 
stand  before  it.  The  goddess  seemed  to  smile  through  over 
full,  primitive-cut  lips.  Remote  as  was  this  her  altar,  other 
and  quite  recent  lovers  had  left  votive  offerings.  Fading 
garlands  enwreathed  the  rude  base,  and  upon  the  goddess's 
breast  a  rose  lay. 

Maia  unbound  her  jown  lilies.  Aphrodite  wore  now  her 
white  wreath.  Before  the  mute  :mage,  crowned,  shedding 
sacrificial  odours,  the  lovers  stood  silent,  transfixed  with 
emotion. 


A  NIGHT  IN  ARCADIA  167 

Then   Mala  held  out  her  hand. 
"  Let  us  begin,"  she  whispered. 

Hand  in  hand  they  stood,  before  the  divine  image.  Their 
voices  rang  up  in  sweet  swelling  unison. 

"Mighty  power,  all  powers  above, 
Great  unconquerable  love; 
Thou  who  liest  in  the  dimple  sleek 
On  the  tender  virgin's  cheek, 
Thee  the  rich  and  great  obey, 
Every  creature  owns  thy  sway. 
O'er  the  wide  earth  and  o'er  the  main 
Extends  thy  universal  reign ; 
All  thy  maddening  influence  know, 
Gods  above  and  men  below ; 
All  thy  powers  resistless  prove 
Great  Unconquerable  Love !  " 

The  first  strophe  was  sung.  Then  they  paused.  Before 
beginning  the  anti-strophe,  Maia  moved,  away  from  the 
altar.  The  cool  dim  forest  —  yonder  —  further  and  fur- 
ther away,  seemed  calling  —  its  dark  aisles  were  beckoning. 

"  Let  us  go  —  yonder  —  'tis  darker  there, —  Diana's  rays 
cannot  follow — "  she  whispered,  as  she  leant  her  pliant 
shape  to  press  the  closer  to  her  lover. 

They  moved  onwards.  The  bright  forest  world  was  left 
behind.  Giant  trees,  ivy-circled,  had  interwoven  their  lofty 
branches,  shutting  out  the  light.  Cool,  fresh  wood  scents 
swept  the  nostril.  Tall  shrubs,  and  herbacious  weeds  made 
close  walls  about  them. 

And  this  part  of  the  forest  was  strangely  still  —  remote 
—  and  secret. 

Still  singing,  the  lovers  walked  on.  Then,  as  by  common 
consent,  they  stopped,  and  their  lips  met,  trembling  as  they 
met. 


Chapter  XV 

BEFORE  THE  RACE 

For  the  few  days  that  remained,  before  the  time  set  for 
the  chariot  race,  Ion  felt  himself  to  be  living  a  hundred 
lives  in  one.  From  long  before  dawn  until  the  dropping 
of  the  sun,  he  was  standing,  shouting,  making  extravagant 
bets,  or  shrieking,  as  victors  or  losers  made  of  him  alter- 
nately a  winner  or  loser,  in  his  turn. 

From  sunset  to  far  into  the  night,  he  was  feasting  or 
giving  a  banquet.  And  his  own  race  was  drawing  nearer 
and  ever  nearer. 

And  yet  —  yet  —  how  through  every  moment  of  emo- 
tional excitement  came  the  remembered  ecstacy  of  Maia's 
touch  —  of  the  thrilling  power  of  her  melodious  voice,  of 
those  moving  tones  —  so  deep  —  so  tremulous  —  when  she 
was  quivering  under  the  weight  of  strong  feeling!  What 
a  divine  woman  to  love!  What  a  glorious  moment  of  life 
to  live  —  here  at  great  Olympia  —  where  even  the  poorest 
Greek  felt  himself  to  be  treading  on  air!  Never  had  Ion 
been  so  near  to  celestial  heights  of  never-fading,  never-end- 
ing sensation.  Every  varying  phase  of  his  intensified  ex- 
istence was  a  delirium  worker. 

The  most  beautiful  woman  in  all  Hellas  loved  him ! 

The  most  famous  stallion  in  Olympia  was  his  —  was  to 
bring  victory  to  his  car. 

What  could  mortal  ask  more,  of  gods  or  men? 

Yet,  as  the  sun  dropped,  at  the  end  of  the  long  day  — 
the  last  before  the  cars  were  to  run,  Ion  had  a  very  human, 
tremulous  moment. 

168 


BEFORE  THE  RACE  169 

He  and  his  father  had  bent  their  steps  towards  the  stables. 
Here  was  a  little  world  apart. 

In  and  out  of  the  stalls,  close  to  the  Hippodrome,  grooms 
were  busy  exercising  shining-coated  horses.  The  air  rang 
with  the  names  of  animals,  of  cities,  and  of  contestants. 
Owners  had  come  to  look  after  the  condition  of  their  stal- 
lions, betting  clerks  had  brought  noted  experts,  whose  pri- 
vate views  would  soon  be  made  public,  affecting  the  rise 
and  fall  of  the  betting. 

Ion  and  his  father  were  soon  the  centre  of  an  animated 
circle.  For  the  hundredth  time,  Ion  gave  to  inquisitive 
strangers  full  particulars  concerning  his  steeds.  Ancestry, 
age,  the  races  in  which  two  of  the  stallions  had  already 
figured  when  as  two-years  old,  they  had  won  at  the  Ne- 
mzean  festival,  in  the  horse  race  —  the  superior  merits  of 
Pollox  to  all  three  of  his  "  four,"  as  well  as  to  all  other 
stallions  sent  by  any  other  contestant  to  this  Olympiad  — 
these  inexhaustible  topics  for  heated  argument,  refutation, 
demonstration,  and  courteous  affirmation,  Ion  rehearsed 
again  and  again. 

For  the  last  time,  in  as  hot  an  aside  as  when  he  had 
stated  his  doubts,  for  the  first  time,  to  his  father,  Ion  had 
whispered,  with  narrowed,  anxious  eyes :  "  I  distrust 
Porus.  The  Theban  has  a  villainous  look.  I  have  cau- 
tioned Xenias  to  have  the  stallions  watched.  Porus,  I  feel 
certain,  would  be  capable  of  any  low  trick." 

"  Poison  —  is  that  in  your  mind  ?  "  cried  Crates,  clasp- 
ing his  hands  in  affright,  his  voice  trembling  with  emotion. 

"  That,  or  worse.  The  Theban  has  his  eye  on  Pollux  — 
he  knows  where  his  true  rival  is  —  see  him,  now,  as  he 
eyes  darkly  the  animal's  steps.  If  one  were  supersti- 
tious — " 

"  Nonsense,  Ion  —  you  are  as  foolish  as  a  woman.  Re- 
member the  symptoms  of  our  last  sacrifice  —  how  favoura- 


170         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

ble  was  every  one.  Why,  even  that  Egyptian  soothsayer 
at  the  Fair—" 

"Who  is  foolish  now  —  father?  Do  you  really  believe 
the  flesh  of  a  goat  can  reflect  the  will  of  the  gods?  Or 
that,  by  the  burning  of  strange  lights  and  unguents,  the 
future  is  made  clear  to  us?"  Bitter  as  were  Ion's  words 
of  unbelief,  his  tone  was  gentle,  for  his  eyes  were  now  on 
his  beautiful  stallion.  His  true  belief  was  centred  there  — 
in  those  iron  muscles,  in  those  quick,  sensitive  nerves,  in 
the  glorious  haunches  and  the  perfect  head,  lit  by  the  fiery 
eyes. 

Ion's  sceptical  outburst  shook  Crates.  An  inward,  shrink- 
ing tremor  possessed  him.  Suppose  the  gods  should  be 
hovering  near!  What  sacrifice  could  he  offer,  to  propitiate 
their  favor?  Crates'  terrified  expostulations  were  checked 
by  the  coming  of  Timoleon  and  Glaucus. 

Fresh  from  the  porticoes  of  the  stadium,  they  brought 
the  very  latest  news. 

"  The  betting  is  even  —  few  odds  are  given,"  cried  Glau- 
cus, with  flushed  cheek  and  eyes  aflame.  "  It  is  one  to 
ten  on  Thebes,  and  one  and  a  fraction  on  your  car  —  Ion, 
dear  boy." 

Glaucus'  tone  was  one  of  excitement;  yet  Ion  felt  its 
accents  sensibly  lacking  in  that  passionate  espousal  of  his 
own  venture,  every  contestant  longs  to  hear,  in  a  friend's 
voice. 

"  One  would  think  you  were  betting  on  both  cars  — 
my  Glaucus,"  Ion  said,  his  bitter  note  again  in  the  ascend- 
ant. Racing  breeds  strange  distempers,  in  the  best  of  men. 

"  As  indeed  I  am !  "  lisped  Glaucus,  throwing  back  his 
light  mantle,  with  a  flourish,  as  he  sent  his  eyes  abroad. 
"  I  am  wise  —  my  boy  —  I  straddle  my  bets.  Why  — 
see  what  I  won  by  my  wisdom  —  in  yesterday's  cock-fight. 
That  Syracusan  was  ruined,  while,  I  by  dividing  my  bets, 


BEFORE  THE  RACE  171 

won  a  pile  of  drachmae."  Glaucus'  face  was  fairly 
ablaze  with  the  memory  of  his  triumph.  He  felt  himself 
to  be  the  wisest  of  men,  in  all  things  connected  with  races 
and  bets.  No  one,  on  the  ground,  he  felt  absolutely  certain, 
could  prophecy  the  failure  or  success  of  the  cars  as  could  he. 

The  three  young  men  were  standing  just  outside  of  the 
stalls.  Ion's  "  four "  were  in  the  open  —  their  grooms 
were  exercising  them.  All  three  men's  eyes  had  been  cen- 
tred on  Pollux.  Every  step  the  animal  took  showed  the 
perfection  of  his  condition.  His  eyes  were  bright,  were 
bristling  with  intelligence;  the  small  sensitive  ears  turned 
like  weathercocks,  at  every  breeze  of  change;  the  glossy 
coat  sheathed  nerves  as  quick  to  act  as  a  woman's;  and 
the  free,  long,  even  strides  that  made  running  seem  easier 
than  walking,  revealed  the  iron  muscles  and  flexible  tissues. 
Pollux  was  a  horse,  indeed,  to  rouse  in  any  horse-lover  a 
pardonable  enthusiasm.  Glaucus,  in  his  heart,  believed 
none  other  could  match  him. 

Ion's  lips,  during  Glaucus'  outburst,  had  curled  with  un- 
disguised contempt.  Glaucus'  innate  meanness,  the  real 
smallness  of  his  nature,  were  fully  revealed  to  Ion,  and  for 
the  first  time.  To  feel  passionately  lends  lightning  vision; 
and  Ion,  in  this,  the  crowning  event  of  his  life,  looking 
for  support  among  his  nearest  friends,  guaged  Glaucus  in 
one  swift  judging.  A  man  who  would  not  be  true  in 
such  a  moment,  Ion  cried,  in  smothered  rage,  to  his  beating 
heart  —  but  Timoleon  was  talking. 

"  You  made  an  excellent  beginning  —  my  Glaucus  —  but 
a  lame  ending.  See  —  here's  Ion  —  amiable  and  charming 
as  he  is  —  he'll  never  forgive  you."  Timoleon 's  eyes  were 
fairly  dancing  with  laughter.  It  was  always  a  banquet  to 
his  humourous  sense,  to  witness  men  making  an  exhibition 
of  themselves,  proving  their  dulness  by  their  ignorance  of 
results.  He,  having  no  love  for  Glaucus,  was  delighted  to 


172         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

see  him  exhibiting  his  folly.  Ion,  likewise,  was  showing  his 
weakness  by  his  anger  at  Glaucus'  treachery.  Yet,  what 
else  was  to  be  looked  for,  in  as  fluid  a  nature? 

Glaucus,  meanwhile,  had  mounted  a  flush.  He  had  a 
dim  vision  that  his  frankness  had,  perhaps,  not  been  in  the 
best  possible  taste.  And  taste  was  to  Glaucus  what  religion 
is  to  the  pious. 

"  Nonthenth !  "  he  always  affected  a  thicker  lisp  than 
common,  when  embarrassed.  "  Ion  knows  well  I  was  but 
joking.  Why,  who  indeed  could  look  at  such  a  horse  as 
Pollux  —  yonder — and  not  know  where  victory  lay?  Such 
a  horse  would  draw  owls  out  of  the  meanest  of  men.  I  — 
as  everyone  knows,  shall  be  half  ruined  if  Ion  fails  to  be 
crowned,"  his  tone  was  almost  tremulous,  for  his  statement 
was  almost  wholly  true. 

Glaucus  moved  towards  Ion,  to  fling  a  loving  arm  about 
his  friend.  His  smile  was  really  full  of  warmth  as  he  met 
Ion's  melting  look. 

Ion,  in  truth,  could  not  long  bear  resentment.  The 
touch  of  his  frost  had  passed.  He  clasped  Glaucus'  hand 
as  it  hung  over  his  shoulder. 

Advancing,  he  bore  Glaucus  onward. 

And  yet  —  and  yet  —  Glaucus'  voice,  assuredly,  did  not 
ring  true! 

"  Ye  gods  above,  and  all  ye  in  the  nether  world !  "  cried 
Ion,  later,  when,  once  more  he  was  alone,  Timoleon  and 
Glaucus  having  suddenly  remembered  an  engagement  to  meet 
a  friend  in  the  Altis  —  whom  they  were  to  conduct  to 
Phidias'  studio  — "  Is  there,  in  all  this  wide  world,  a  de- 
pendable man?  Even  the  best  of  friends  wear  a  full  suit 
of  armour  —  one  must  guess  at  the  real  face  worn  behind 
the  shield!" 

On  his  way  to  his  tent,  Ion  sighed,  as  he  made  the  above 
philosophic  reflection.  Men  revealed,  indeed,  strange  qual- 


BEFORE  THE  RACE  173 

ities  in  stalls  of  a  hippodrome!  Horses  brought  secrets 
to  light  the  most  intimate  intercourse  failed  to  reveal.  Well 
—  he  would  know  the  worst  and  the  best,  in  a  few  short 
hours!  The  night  to  pass  —  and  at  dawn,  on  the  morrow, 
his  fate  would  be  sealed! 


Chapter  XVI 

THE  CHARIOT  RACE 

ON  the  following  morning,  long  before  dawn,  the  slip- 
ping of  thousands  of  naked  and  sandalled  feet,  hurrying 
over  stone  seats,  or  pressing  through  the  entrance  aisles  of 
the  hippodrome  struck  the  ear.  The  bustle  and  stir  of 
the  multitude,  the  roar  of  laughter,  the  coarse  jests,  the 
neighing  of  the  horses,  their  kicking  and  plunging,  and  the 
yells  of  the  hucksters,  without  the  huge  enclosure,  made 
an  ever  increasing  confusion  of  sound. 

In  the  purple  dusk,  the  stars  hung  low,  golden  balls  of 
light. 

The  dawn  presaged  its  coming  by  the  refreshing  coolness 
of  its  breath.  Fragrant  airs  swept  up  and  through  the  val- 
leys and  river  bed.  Night  went  out  in  illumined  serenity 
of  skies  that  only  parted  with  their  paling  glory  to  wear 
Aurora's  splendour. 

With  the  sharp  suddenness  of  dawn,  peculiar  to  Hellas, 
the  day  brightened  and  all  was  made  clear. 

The  breaking  day  showed  the  elliptical  immensity  of  the 
Hippodrome  to  be  already  packed.  The  terraced  seats  curv- 
ing about  the  prow-shaped  enclosure,  were  sheeted  in  white. 
Garlanded  heads  rose  above  festival  robes.  Statues  and 
statute-like  forms  showed  bronzed  and  tinted  skins.  Hasty 
toilettes  were  being  made.  Gemmed  ringers  swept  tangled 
locks  to  rights;  beards  were  caressed  into  shape,  and  gar- 
lands were  straightened,  or  fresh  ones  brought  forth. 

Those  who  were  already  awake  were  noisy.  These 
laughed  and  joked.  Many  were  playing  tricks  on  their 

174 


THE  CHARIOT  RACE  175 

neighbours.  Those  still  huddled  in  the  coil  of  sleep,  were 
kept  from  sitting  in  too  comfortable  a  posture;  others  were 
doing  their  best  to  make  such  as  had  brought  a  store  of 
goodly  provisions,  share  them  with  those  who  had  brought 
none,  but  were  quick  with  their  ringers. 

"  Figs  —  Figs  —  fresh  figs !  "  "  Garlands  —  roses  — 
wreaths  —  garlands  for  all !  "  "  Honey  cakes,  sweet  honey 
cakes!  Who'll  buy  my  home-baked  cakes?"  "Here's 
Chian  and  fresh  water!  here's  Rhodian  —  who  is  thirsty? 
Here's  wine  and  cool  water!" 

Such  were  the  tantalizing  cries  of  vendors  crowding  about 
the  entrance  to  the  Hippodrome,  that  rang  up  to  madden 
the  ears  of  those  who  had  not  forestalled  this  critical  mom- 
ent, by  bringing  the  necessary  provisions.  For  the  Hippo- 
drome interior  was  freed  from  the  shrill  voices  of  com- 
petitive petty  hucksters. 

Crates,  with  Nirias  beside  him,  was  among  those  who 
had  carried  full  baskets.  Having  sat  in  his  seat  since  mid- 
night, Crates  had  the  hunger  of  a  tired  man.  Nirias  had 
managed  to  sleep  on  through  most  of  the  long  slow  shades. 

As  Crates  moved,  to  make  a  better  table  of  his  knees, 
a  gathering  growl  below  his  feet  made  him  lift  his  eyes 
from  his  bread  and  honey.  A  coarse  voice  was  sounding 
threatening  notes. 

"  Hey  —  you  —  look  out,  I  say !  What  are  your  elbows 
doing  on  my  back?  Is  it  a  signal  for  a  trial  throw,  my 
friend?" 

As  the  shoulders  bent  backward,  and  the  huddled  shape 
came  to  an  upright,  Crates  stopped  his  munching.  For  a 
single  instant,  he  felt  his  breath  indrawn.  The  man's  form, 
as  it  towered  forth  out  of  the  dawn,  rose  up  like  a  mighty 
column. 

He  must,  in  his  youth  and  best  manhood,  have  been  a 
famous  boxer.  Both  his  ears  were  crushed.  Some  straight 


i76 

home- thrusts  had  marred  his  features  to  the  jumble  athletes 
gloried  in,  one  that  proved  them  the  heroes  of  a  hundred 
battles  and  victories. 

As  Crates  caught  a  closer  glimpse  of  his  man,  he  smiled. 
With  a  quick  gesture,  he  put  his  hand  to  his  girdle;  he 
took  out  some  coins.  He  had  seen  old  athletes  before.  He 
knew  their  quick  tempers,  and  also  how  to  quiet  them. 

"  There  —  there  —  my  friend,  I  owe  you  my  excuses. 
Here's  my  way  of  proving  it  to  you."  And  Crates  put  a 
jingling  mass  of  owls  into  the  man's  open  palm. 

"  Well,"  the  giant  laughed,  with  a  pleased  grunt,  "  I 
accept  your  excuses,  and  I  like  your  manner  of  rendering 
them.  Here,  you!  Here,  some  breakfast  for  a  rich  man!  " 
The  monster  clincked  his  coins  in  the  teeth  of  a  neighbour 
near  by,  who  was  sharing  some  cakes  and  figs,  with  a 
friend. 

The  crowd  laughed,  and  looked  for  the  end.  And  the 
and  came  quickly.  "  Ah-h,  you  will  not  ?  You  prefer  to 
play  the  benefactor  ?  "  The  athlete  grinned  unpleasantly, 
as  he  leant  across  a  lap  or  two.  "  Those  figs,  my  friend, 
if  you  please." 

The  knotty  fingers  seemed  scarcely  to  have  touched  the 
man's  lean  hand,  and  the  fig  was  already  lifted  to  his  lip. 
Yet  the  fig  dropped  as  though  the  hand  of  him  who  held 
it  had  suffered  a  lightning  stroke.  Those  laughed  loudest 
who  had  brought  no  breakfast.  Having  won  his  audience, 
the  athlete  proposed  to  play  up  to  it. 

"  And  you,  yonder,  your  cake  takes  my  fancy!  "  he  cried. 
The  man  holding  the  honeycakes  thought  fit  to  put  one  be- 
yond the  reach  of  those  terrible  fingers.  Before  the  cake 
was  fairly  between  his  teeth,  he  felt  the  world  turn  and 
his  jaw  lock.  He  was  sitting  in  a  heap,  with  empty  hands, 
and  a  feeling  of  tightness  and  pain  about  his  face. 

The  crowd  shrieked  its  delight  at  such  rough  play.    Sorry 


THE  CHARIOT  RACE  177 

indeed  must  be  the  joke  that  did  not  evoke  delighted  laugh- 
ter at  dawn,  from  the  waiting  thousands  in  the  Hippodrome. 
The  scarred  face  of  the  athlete,  eating  another  man's  break- 
fast, with  an  innocent  look,  was  the  kind  of  jest  peculiarly 
to  the  taste  of  Olympian  pilgrims. 

Into  the  midst  of  the  shouting,  rocking,  shrieking  crowd, 
Ion  passed  from  the  outer  stalls,  to  take  up  his  place  in  the 
contestant's  stand.  His  own  excitement  all  but  benumbed 
him.  The  tumult  about  him,  like  the  warmth  and  bril- 
liancy of  the  full  day,  soothed  his  shaking  limbs.  Once 
he  had  faced  the  great  crowd,  and  the  white  chill  of  hi? 
over-mastering  anxiety  passed  from  him,  as  by  miraculous 
command. 

Out  of  the  hundreds  of  faces  pressing  above  and  about 
him,  Timeleon's  and  Glaucus'  countenances  shone  forth, 
wreathed  with  smiles.  They  had  cleverly  edged  their  way 
close  to  the  stoa  —  they  stood  almost  within  the  privileged 
place. 

Ion's  appearance  was  the  signal  for  joyful  greetings. 

"  Here  he  is ! —  here  he  is !  "  cried  Timoleon.  Never 
had  Ion  seen  his  friend  as  elated  —  as  stirred  with  ex- 
citement. Timoleon  seemed  proud  to  have  captured  him, 
to  have  as  distinguished  a  contestant  to  acclaim  as  friend. 

"  Cool  as  a  morning  in  Thrace  —  by  all  the  Powers ! " 
lisped  Glaucus,  as  he  slanted  his  eyes,  looking  Ion's  fresh- 
ness over  as  he  might  a  woman's.  "  Enviable  creature,  to 
show  such  eyes  —  thus  to  face  your  fate !  " 

Other  eyes  than  those  of  his  friends  were  upon  Ion. 
Wherever  he  looked,  he  met  curious,  eager,  devouring 
glances.  A  buzzing  of  tongues  about  him  whispered  his 
name,  the  name  also  of  Xenias,  of  his  horses,  of  the  stud 
farm,  and  of  his  own  birthplace.  Those  whose  information 
was  the  most  precise  were  eagerly  listened  to.  He  heard 
bets  made  that  startled,  and  yet  delighted  his  ears.  Every 


i78        ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

sense  seemed  to  have  been  doubled,  to  have  greatly  intensi- 
fied its  sensory  powers.  It  was  even  sweet  to  feel  his  own 
breath  upon  his  lip.  It  came,  like  the  warmth  of  the 
growing  day,  fragrant,  yet  pulsing  with  heat. 

While  the  course  was  being  swept  and  freshly  raked, 
Ion  had  time  to  respond  to  the  greetings  and  signals  from 
friends  in  the  nearer  seats. 

"  Greeting  —  dear  boy  —  dear  son,  I  may  say !  "  cried 
Critias,  a  distinguished  Athenian,  attempting  to  stretch  forth 
his  white  hand,  over  a  dozen  heads  and  shoulders. 

"I  say,  dear  old  man  —  why  are  you  not  mad  —  just  a 
little  frenzied  ?  Dost  feel  the  swelling  rapture  of  all  this  ?  " 
And  Glaucus  swung  his  arm  towards  the  heaving,  shouting, 
cursing,  staring  crowds,  filling  every  inch  of  the  Hippo- 
drome's space. 

Ion  straightened  himself;  he  tucked  his  forefingers  in  his 
jewelled  girdle.  Looking  straight  before  him,  and  at  the 
terrible,  yet  most  fascinating  of  all  the  objects  in  that  im- 
mense ellipse, —  he  set  his  eyes  and  fixed  them  on  the  Tarax- 
ippos. 

"  I  am,  perhaps,  feeling  it  all  so  deeply,  my  Glaucus, 
I  feel  naught.  I  can  only  be  sensible  of  one  thing  —  of 
that  awful  Taraxippos  —  of  its  horror,  and  wondering  how 
my  stallions  will  pass  it." 

As  a  woman  might  move  near  to  comfort  a  sister,  in 
suffering,  Glaucus  crept  close  to  Ion.  "  Neither  you  nor  I, 
dear  Ion,"  he  whispered,  "  can  imagine  fiery  Pollux  as 
lying  beneath  the  wreck  of  chariots.  See  —  yonder  — 
your  father  waves !  " 

As  Ion  returned,  gaily,  Crates'  frantic  salute,  he  managed 
to  clasp  his  friend's  hand.  Never,  he  felt,  had  he  loved 
him  as  now. 

"  Perhaps,  dear  man,  I  am  indeed  mad  —  perhaps  the 
frenzy  is  upon  me.  God!  how  long  will  it  be  before  the 


THE  CHARIOT  RACE  179 

trumpet  sounds?"  Ion  looked  towards  the  judges'  stand 
with  staring  eyes,  and  then  his  trained  eyes  swept  the  course. 

In  the  now  bright  daylight,  the  whole  course  lay  bared 
to  the  light.  Each  and  every  feature  of  the  famous  ellipse 
was  clearly  to  be  seen. 

In  the  axis  of  its  length,  ran  the  long  dividing  barrier. 
At  one  end  stood  an  altar.  At  the  farther  end,  on  its  tall 
column,  uprose  the  dreaded  Taraxippos.  This  latter,  "  The 
Terror  of  Horses,"  would  show  the  awful  mask  that  would 
strike  to  terrified  trembling,  or  would  throw  into  a  panic 
of  fear,  each  and  every  one  of  the  competing  stallions. 

The  lower  end  of  the  Hippodrome  was  filled  with  the 
celebrated  stall-arrangement  —  the  Aphesis.  This  was  a 
prow-shaped  enclosure,  that  projected  into  the  course.  The 
contestants  must  draw  for  position. 

It  had  been  Ion's  bad  luck  to  draw  one  of  the  worst  of 
all  the  stalls.  His  place  came  at  the  very  end  —  next  to 
the  last  stall.  But  he  and  his  driver  had  had  time  to  work 
out  a  plan  to  make  this  bad  stroke  of  luck  help  rather  than 
spoil  their  play  for  position. 

All  eyes  were  now  fixed,  with  signs  of  growing  impa- 
tience, on  the  altar  that  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  Aphesis. 
An  eagle  was  hidden  within  this  altar.  Worked  by  invisi- 
ble springs,  when  the  eagle  uprose,  to  spread  its  wings,  a 
bronze  dolphin,  placed  in  full  view  at  the  very  tip  end  of 
the  prow-shaped  compartment,  would  be  seen  to  sink  earth- 
wards. This  downward  plunge  was  the  signal  for  the  be- 
ginning of  the  race. 

The  goal  was  in  the  very  centre  of  the  barrier,  marked  by 
a  statue  of  Hippodamia.  The  judges'  stand  was  placed 
directly  opposite. 

As  his  cry  had  burst  from  him,  Ion  felt  the  cold  sweat 
break.  This  physical  chill  was  the  sign  of  the  pulsing  flame 
within.  His  brain  seemed  a  ball  of  fire;  every  nerve 


180         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

pricked,  and  his  whole  frame  tingled  with  the  sense  of  over- 
mastering emotion.  He  seemed  to  be  living  a  dozen  lives 
in  as  many  instants.  The  consciousness  of  this  intensified 
existence  was  still  further  heightened  by  the  contagion  of 
the  mounting  excitement  of  the  mighty  throng.  Their  cries 
and  oaths,  the  laughter  that  seemed  strangely  hard,  un- 
natural, their  stampings,  and  impatient  clapping  made  the 
air  vibrant  with  frenzied  human  feeling. 

A  single  trumpet  note  suddenly  stilled  the  clamour  to 
breathless  quiet.  For  the  great  moment  had  come. 

After  the  herald  had  sounded  his  notes,  thousands  of 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  bronze  dolphin.  Out  of  the  still- 
ness the  pawing  of  the  still  invisible  stallions,  their  snortings 
and  plungings,  the  sharp  cries  of  charioteers,  and  the  clan- 
guer  of  metallic  grinding  rose  up  to  whet  to  keener  edge 
the  passion  of  the  waiting  throng. 

The  dolphin  had  now  sunk  to  earth.  The  eagle  had 
spread  its  wings. 

At  the  instant  of  the  bird's  soaring  flight  above  the  whit- 
ened altar,  came  the  clincking  rattle  of  loosening  chains. 
A  crunching  of  wheels,  the  dash  of  steeds  in  spirited  action, 
and  forth  from  their  stalls  first  one  chariot  and  then  another 
was  seen  to  leap  into  view. 

For  less  than  a  breath,  the  cars  then  stood  in  line. 

Then  the  rope  fell.  And  a  thunderous  roar  rose  up 
from  the  throng  that  shook  the  very  hills. 

''They  are  off!  They  are  off!"  Ion  heard  Timoleon 
and  Glaucus  and  other  thousands  of  voices  shouting.  "  Yes, 
they  are  off,"  Ion  echoed,  not  knowing  that  he  was  whis- 
pering and  not  shouting.  For  now  the  race  had  begun, 
blurred  senses  —  even  blurred  vision  had  come. 

Yet  he  knew,  in  some  dull  blind  way,  the  course  to  be 
one  blaze  of  bronze.  The  sun  beat  fiercely  on  the  shining 
polished  wheels;  the  intense  rays  flashed  upon  golden  bits, 


THE  CHARIOT  RACE  181 

the  bright  reins  seemed  long  lines  of  light,  and  the  short 
tunics  of  the  charioteers,  filled  with  air,  made  whiter  or 
browner  the  knotty  sinewy  calves,  the  muscular  arms,  and 
the  bending  of  the  straining  necks.  Yet  more  and  more, 
horses,  cars,  and  charioteers  were  becoming  one  whirling 
indistinguishable  mass. 

Little  by  little,  however,  Ion  made  out  the  position  of 
each  one  of  the  favorites. 

The  Syracusan,  famous  for  his  perfectly  matched  white 
stallions  that  had  already  a  hard-won  victory  to  their  credit, 
no  longer  ago  than  last  year,  at  Delphi, —  this  dark-eyed 
young  charioteer  had  won  the  prize  stall.  Forth  from  the 
very  top  of  the  prow  he  had  shot.  Directly  in  line  with 
the  inside  track,  the  Syracusan  had  swept  his  four  close  to 
the  inner  edge  of  the  barrier. 

Ion's  most  dangerous  rival,  Poms,  had  managed  to  swing 
his  beautiful  car,  with  its  superb  Thessalian  steeds,  close 
beside  the  Sicilian. 

Next  in  turn  came  Corinth's  quadriga  driven  by  a  noted 
charioteer  with  a  dozen  victories  already  won. 

Several  less  sensationally  equipped  cars  came  in  between 
a  new-comer  —  a  fiery  eyed  young  Arabian,  with  stallions, 
small,  slender-limbed,  who  stepped  as  lightly  as  a  summer 
breeze  blows,  and  who  ran,  quick  as  light,  at  a  word  from 
their  youthful  driver. 

Xenias  held  the  outside  edge.  But  those  who  watched, 
might  have  seen  how  cleverly  this  most  wary  of  all  the 
charioteers  crept  up  at  every  plunge  of  his  fiery  yet  easily 
managed  "  four." 

As  Ion  had  caught  sight  of  the  Theban  car  his  heart  had 
seemed  to  die  within  him. 

The  perfection  of  its  running  gear,  its  lightness  and 
strength,  the  perfect  mating  of  the  Thessalian  steeds,  their 
mingled  fire  and  gentleness,  and  the  superb  ease  and  free- 


182         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

dom  of  Porus'  driving,  made  Ion  almost  confess  the  race 
already  won.  A  wild  hot  wave  of  agonized  fear  rose  up : — 
could  Xenias  thus  control  ^clean's  fiery  temper?  Would 
the  other  trace-horse  answer  to  the  curb  as  did  Porus' 
steeds  ? 

And  then  Ion  felt  the  whole  earth  turn.  For  his  car 
was  being  cheered. 

Cries  and  shouts  of  resounding  applause  greeted  its  ap- 
pearance. Ion  came  back  to  life.  All  he  distinctly  felt 
or  saw  was  that,  if  anything,  his  dear  Xenias  had  his  "  four  " 
in  even  firmer  hand  than  had  his  rival  his  restive  steeds. 
His  own  four  stepped  as  one.  The  car  rolled  as  though 
upon  a  silken  carpet. 

Suddenly,  a  great  shout  rose  up. 

"  Ah-h  —  See !  Look !  By  the  gods  almighty,  but  one  is 
down  already!" 

Above  the  whirring  tumult  of  the  rushing  chariots,  a 
dull,  ominous  crash  broke  upon  the  ear.  The  sound  of 
breaking  timber  and  crushed  bronze,  of  horses'  cries  of 
rage  and  fear,  and  a  driver's  maddened  roar  were  drowned 
by  the  long  groan  that  burst  from  the  shrieking,  contemp- 
tuous crowd. 

Hisses,  curses,  cries  of  "Coward!"  "Fool!"  "Mule- 
driver  !  "  and  worse  were  yelled  by  those  whose  money  was 
on  the  fallen  car.  Crushed  and  splintered  lay  the  Achsean 
car  against  the  inner  sides  of  the  course.  The  horses  had 
fallen  as  the  car  struck.  The  driver  was  making  frantic 
efforts  to  get  them  upon  their  feet. 

But  the  wrecked  car  was  quickly  forgotten.  For  the  re- 
maining eleven  were  flying  past,  in  the  fury  of  the  steeds' 
first  heat.  Thousands  of  eyes  followed  the  now  swaying 
figures  of  the  charioteers.  Brown,  lustrous  arms,  limbs  and 
necks  shone  with  the  glitter  of  perfect  health;  the  grace 
and  firm  stand  of  the  drivers,  within  the  rocking  cars,  the 


THE  CHARIOT  RACE  183 

floating  streamers  flying  out,  stiffened  and  straight,  the  reins 
high  held,  the  splendid  picture  held  every  eye  spell  bound. 

On  and  on  the  cars  swept,  and  the  shouts  of  the  bettors 
followed  their  course.  Voices  were  heard  shouting  — 

"  The  Syracusan  still  holds  his  place !  " 

"  Wait  till  he  passes  the  Terror !  " 

"A  hundred   to  anything  he  does!" 

"  Ten  to  one  the  Theban  cuts  in !  " 

Shrieking,  yelling,  groaning,  the  vast  white  crowd  swayed 
as  did  the  charioteers,  rocked  by  the  frenzy  of  the  mounting 
excitement. 

Then  an  instant's  lull  came,  in  the  tempestuous  clamour. 
For  the  Taraxippos  was  all  but  reached. 

The  Syracusan  was  seen  to  gather  his  reins  with  nervous 
grasp.  His  neighbour,  the  Theban,  who,  from  the  start  had 
been  neck  and  neck  with  his  four,  swerved,  slightly,  to  the 
right,  to  give  his  car  a  wider  swing.  This  effort  was 
quickly  checked,  for  the  Corinthian  charioteer  closed  in, 
pressing  Porus  to  perilous  closeness  against  the  shining  Syra- 
cusan wheels. 

With  a  curse  that  cut  the  air,  Porus  took  his  revenge  by 
crowding  the  Syracusan  to  the  danger  point  at  the  very  mo- 
ment the  latter's  steeds  first  caught  sight  of  the  dreaded 
mask. 

The  "  horror,"  the  terror  of  horses  had  risen ;  its  hideous 
features  loomed  forth  with  the  demoniac  unexpectedness  of 
a  supernatural  apparition. 

As  the  awful  mask  lifted  its  leering  face,  a  blast  from 
an  invisible  trumpet  shook  the  air. 

The  crisis  of  panic  was  upon  the  horses.  The  on-rushing 
speed  of  every  car  was  suddenly  checked.  The  terrorized 
shrieks  of  stallions  rent  the  air.  Some  plunged  and  kicked ; 
others,  becoming  utterly  unmanageable,  sped  with  frenzied 
fear  past  the  Terror,  to  collide  with  other  cars  whose 


184         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

charioteers  were  bent  double  over  their  reins,  in  their  mad- 
'dened  effort  to  regain  control  of  their  frightened  steeds. 
Crash  after  crash  announced  the  dreaded,  yet  expected  dis- 
aster, of  the  ruin  of  half  the  chariots  that  had  entered 
the  lists.  The  wrecks  of  crushed  cars  and  of  kicking  fallen 
horses  were  now  added  to  the  difficulties  that  must  be  met 
and  surmounted,  by  those  who  had  survived  the  awful  test. 

After  the  first  shiver  of  affright,  the  Syracusan  was  seen 
still  to  hold  his  position.  His  four  had  been  startled,  had 
plunged  and  shown  symptoms  of  panic.  But  the  char- 
ioteer's iron  wrist  and  cheering  shouts  had  all  but  produced 
their  effect.  He  still  lead  the  race,  but  Porus,  whose  nigh 
trace  horse  had  emitted  a  shriek  of  terror,  pricked  the  an- 
imal with  his  goad,  as,  with  masterly  skill,  he  swung  his 
car  to  the  right,  a  clearer  space  having  been  yielded  by 
the  simultaneous  rearing  of  the  Syracusan  pole  horses. 

With  a  shout  and  a  yell  of  triumph,  Porus  sent  his  own 
four,  at  furious  speed,  across  the  course  from  right  to  left. 
He  had  used  the  maddened  terror  of  his  horses  to  gain 
position.  Their  fright  lent  them  wings  of  flame.  He 
crossed  the  Syracusan's  axle  pole  by  a  bare  inch.  But  he 
crossed  it. 

Porus  now  led  the  race. 

This  brilliant  manoevre  won  frantic  applause.  Porus  ran 
his  four  now,  to  the  ringing  music  of  intoxicating  applause. 

He  felt  the  race  to  be  his. 

For  his  animals  were  well  in  hand.  They  ran  with  the 
fury  of  thoroughbreds  whose  Thessalian  racing  blood  was 
fully  fired. 

The  Syracusan,  Porus  knew,  however,  was  once  more 
close  beside  him. 

And  Xenias,  he  instinctively  felt,  rather  than  saw,  was 
executing  some  dangerous  feat  of  skill.  For  the  crowd  was 
now  shouting  "  The  Pirasan !  "  "  The  Piraan !  "  Even  as 


THE  CHARIOT  RACE  j85 

he  bent  over  his  reins,  Porus  heard,  above  all  the  clamorous 
fury  of  the  rushing  cars,  extravagant  bets  cried  out  on  the 
Pirasan  favourite. 

Ion's  aching  eyes,  at  last,  descried  Xenias'  floating  stream- 
ers. His  car  had  been  held  with  rigid  steering  close  to  the 
wall,  away  from  the  awful  horror.  This  point  had  been 
agreed  upon,  from  the  very  first.  Xenias  was  not  to  strive 
for  place,  he  was  to  hold  in  the  team,  until  the  Taraxippos 
had  been  past  —  at  least  once.  After  the  worst  had  been 
tested,  once  the  team  had  become  used  to  facing  the  awful 
terror,  and  the  wrecks  sure  to  encumber  this  end  of  the 
course  could  be  reckoned  with,  then  and  then  only,  was 
Xenias  to  put  his  gallant  four  to  their  speed. 

"  He  holds  back !  Xenias  is  holding  back !  "  cried  Glau- 
cus,  in  wild  frenzy,  as  his  trained  eyes  caught  sight  of  the 
trick. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Ion,  a  huge  sigh  of  relief  bursting  from 
him,  "  Yes,  he  holds  in  his  steed  —  see  —  he  is  turning  now 
—  the  four  are  actually  facing  the  Taraxippos." 

With  a  mastery  of  the  moment  even  Ion  had  not  be- 
lieved his  driver  capable  of  displaying,  Xenias  had  let  the 
Theban,  the  Syracusan  and  the  Corinthian,  who  had  man- 
aged to  get  their  terrified  steeds  past  the  Terror  —  he  al- 
lowed them  to  pass  his  car. 

Deliberately,  he  drove  his  stallions  close  to  the  terror 
of  horses.  Tightening  his  rein  on  the  nigh  horse,  he  gave 
Pollux  his  head.  With  a  prick  of  his  goad,  he  brought  the 
beautiful  creature  face  to  face  with  the  dreaded  mask. 

Pollux  stared,  started,  trembled.  His  fear  was  instantly 
communicated  to  his  mates.  The  four  were  now  franti- 
cally plunging,  wild  with  mingled  terror  and  the  novel  sen- 
sation of  palzied  inaction.  As  one,  the  four  reared.  The 
car  was  all  but  overturned. 

"  Ah-h.     By  the  great  god  — 'tis  going!     No,  he  has  them 


186         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

still  in  hand!  he's  pulling,  for  all  his  might  —  Ion  —  Ion 
—  he'll  master  them  yet!  he'll  do  it!  By  all  the  heavenly 
powers,  what  is  he  now  attempting  to  do?  " 

Xenias  was  performing  a  feat  far  more  wonderful  than 
merely  to  get  his  four  well  in  hand.  For  the  Corinthian 
and  the  Syracusan,  in  swinging  about  the  upper  end  of  the 
barrier,  had  lost  ground.  Quick  as  light  Xenias  was  over 
his  horses'  back,  his  cheers  and  cries  calling  to  each  to  do 
his  utmost.  He  cut  across  the  Syracusan's  pole,  at  the  very 
moment  when  the  charioteer  was  busy  in  goading  his  re- 
bellious off-horse  to  do  his  best  work.  He  had  left  the 
Corinthian  a  whole  length  behind. 

Xenias'  masterly  play  for  position  had  won.  He  and 
Porus  were  now  leading  the  race. 

And  Ion  was  tasting  his  first  sip  of  rapture. 

For  the  air  was  split,  rent,  pierced  with  praise  of  Xenias. 
Sixty  thousand  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  charioteer's  bent 
shoulders,  on  his  set,  obstinate  jawed  face,  on  the  beautiful 
steeds  now  once  more  in  perfect  step,  rounding  the  course 
with  lightning  speed. 

Round  and  round  they  rushed,  Porus  and  Xenias  neck 
and  neck,  with  the  Corinthian,  the  Syracusan,  and  the 
Libyan  once  more  disputing  for  place  at  every  turn  in  the 
course.  The  five  surviving  cars  were  swinging  as  one,  about 
the  altar  end  of  the  barrier. 

"  Hey !  Corinth !  at  you !  at  you  —  you  fiend !  "  cried  the 
Sicilian.  Then  his  hoarse  laugh,  senseless,  brutalized  with 
mounting  madness,  was  shrieked  to  the  suddenly  quieted  air. 
For  the  crowd  had  stilled  its  voice  to  listen  for  the  coming 
tragedy  that  now  rocked  upon  the  silence. 

The  Sicilian's  madness  was  as  a  gathering  ecstasy.  He 
felt  the  Hippodrome  his  —  for  one  glorious  moment. 

"  Ha-a!  you  hound!  you  come,  do  you?  You'll  bite  the 
dust,  then,  for  by  the  pest  of  the  furies  I'll  drive  you  to 


THE  CHARIOT  RACE  187 

hell !  "  And  with  the  cry  of  one  rushing  to  glory,  he  locked 
wheels  with  the  Corinthian. 

The  shrill  crash  of  splintering  wheels,  the  thud  of  the 
cars  as  they  rode  to  destruction,  and  the  agonized  cries  of 
the  Corinthian  rose  above  the  terrorized  equine  shrieks. 

And  the  crowd  shivered  and  felt  the  sweet,  delicious 
thrill  of  chilly  horror.  For  the  two  wrecked  chariots  lay 
directly  in  the  very  middle  of  the  course. 

"By  Zeus  in  Heaven!  but  Xenias  can  never  pass! 
There's  no  room.  I  tell  you  there's  no  room !  "  Ion  was 
beside  himself.  He  was  screaming  his  fear.  For  he,  as 
well  as  the  Hippodrome  audience  now  saw,  with  the  wrecked 
chariots  directly  in  the  course,  the  space  between  the  barrier 
and  the  fallen  cars  was  all  too  narrow  for  the  competing 
cars  to  pass. 

All  three,  Porus  and  Xenias,  close  to  the  inner  track,  and 
the  Libyan,  were  now  running  neck  and  neck.  They  were 
rounding  the  course,  for  the  tenth  time.  They  were  near- 
ing  the  chariot-wrecks  that  lay  in  the  middle  of  the  course. 

Men,  above  upon  the  stone  seats,  could  be  heard  sucking 
in  their  breath ;  some  laughed  —  foolishly ;  a  few  emitted 
hoarse  cries.  But  the  proof  of  the  multitude's  overmaster- 
ing emotion  was  felt,  rather  than  heard;  they  leant  over, 
craning  necks  and  stretching  bodies  forth,  with  eyes  that 
had  the  look  of  men  on  the  brink  of  some  fearful  personal 
tragedy. 

"  Ah!  "  "  Zeus!  "  "  Ye  heavenly  powers!  "  "  He'll  do  it! 
I  tell  you  he  will !  "  "  Ten  thousand  to  one  hundred  he 
won't!"  "The  Libyan!"  "The  Libyan!"  "Piraeus 
look  out  —  he's  gaining,  he's — " 

Then  a  fearful  cry  rang  up. 

"  Oh-h-h !  "  The  long  groan  that  swept  from  the  hot 
lips  of  swaying  thousands  was  the  mighty  dirge  that  sang  the 
Theban  to  earth. 


188         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

For  Porus,  as  he  had  gathered  his  reins  to  pull  in  his  four 
—  he  led  Xenias  by  half  a  length  —  found  his  pole  horses 
terrorized  at  the  sight  of  the  still  kicking,  plunging  stallions, 
caught  in  the  ruin  of  the  overturned  chariots.  His  pole 
suddenly  shot  up  in  air ;  and  the  pole  horses  with  it ;  the  off 
trace-horse  swerved  madly  to  the  left,  close  to  the  wreck, 
and  the  splendid  Thessalian  chariot  overturned  and  went 
to  pieces,  its  left  wheel  crashing  the  two  wheels  that  lay  just 
beside  the  nearest  wrecked  car. 

The  long,  loud  wail  burst  to  gather  anew  into  prolonged, 
resounding  groans.  The  fame  of  the  Thessalian  steeds, 
Porus'  many-times  proven  skill,  together  with  the  beauty  of 
the  chariot  and  the  enormous  losses  the  ruin  of  the  first 
favourite  would  bring  to  thousands,  made  Porus'  tragedy 
the  chief  disaster  of  the  great  race.  Men  turned  pale. 
Ruin  stared  many  a  Theban  in  the  face ;  and  every  Thessa- 
lian's  soul  went  down  to  the  uttermost  depths  of  despair 
with  the  fall  of  the  splendid  venture.  Some  sobbed,  others 
tore  off  garlands,  and  others  struck  at  their  breasts  as  the 
tears  streamed.  For  the  Thessalian  thousands  gathered 
upon  the  seats,  the  day  was  going  down  in  utter  blackness. 

In  the  loud  uproar,  scarce  a  shout  was  to  be  heard.  Un- 
til, presently,  at  the  eleventh  rounding,  a  particularly  mas- 
terly movement  on  the  part  of  the  Libyan,  gave  the  crowd 
a  fresh  sensation. 

Xenias,  as  Porus  had  fallen,  had  pushed  his  four  to  their 
utmost  speed.  The  Libyan  was  now  his  sole  rival.  On 
passing  the  obstructing  wreck,  the  Libyan  held  back.  He 
swerved,  with  cool  deliberation,  to  the  right.  He  gave  rein 
to  the  off  trace-horse,  and  reined  in,  with  fierce  grasp,  his 
nigh  stallion.  After  passing  the  crushed  chariots  on  the 
outer  edge  of  the  course,  close  to  the  uprising  of  the  Hippo- 
drome wall,  he  was  seen,  for  the  first  time  to  lean  over. 
His  young,  flushed  face  was  stretched  far  forward,  over 


THE  CHARIOT  RACE  189 

the  four  plunging  stallions.  And  he  spoke  to  them,  gently, 
calling  each  by  name,  in  the  tongue  strange  to  Greek  ears; 
and  the  stallions  answered.  With  a  single  bound  they 
cleared  the  space,  rounding  the  upper  end  of  the  barrier 
where  leered  the  Terror.  They  passed  the  horror  without 
turning  a  white  hair.  A  simultaneous  spurt  of  speed,  and 
they  had  crossed  Xenias'  axle  pole ! 

The  Libyan  led  the  race ! 

The  thunderous  shouts  that  rose  up  to  the  skies,  secerned 
to  rock  the  very  hills.  On  and  up  the  thunder  rolled.  The 
horses  from  the  desert  heard  the  mad  paeon  of  rapture. 
They  settled  down  to  their  work  of  rounding  the  last  heat 
with  eyes  that  blazed  fire,  with  stretching  necks,  and  deep 
breath. 

The  air  rang  now  as  loud  with  bets  as  it  had  with  frantic 
applause. 

"  A  thousand  dradmae  to  ten  he'll  keep  the  lead!  " 

"Two  thousand  that  he  won't!"  Ion  thought,  but  in 
his  white  fear  he  could  not  be  sure,  that  he  heard  his  father's 
voice.  Whoever  it  was  Glaucus  took  up  the  bet.  "  Ten 
thousand  that  the  Libyan  wins!  " 

The  deep  roar  of  the  shouting  multitude  engulfed  the  an- 
swer. For  Xenias  had  performed  a  prodigy  of  skill. 

After  losing  his  place,  his  one  thought  had  been  to  make 
up  in  speed  what  he  had  lost  in  position.  With  his  four 
still  in  perfect  hand,  and  working  beautifully,  he  steered 
close  to  the  Libyan.  There  lay  scarce  an  inch  of  space  be- 
tween their  whirling  wheels.  The  eight  horses'  heads  and 
haunches  were  so  near  a  level,  a  child  might  have  leapt  from 
back  to  back.  Xenias  did  not  urge  his  steeds;  there  was 
still  the  Terror  and  the  wreck  to  pass,  and  the  altar  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  course,  before  the  last  final  curve  was  to 
be  made  —  before  the  goal  was  passed. 

On  and  on,  neck  and  neck,  the  two  cars  ran.     They  had 


igo         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

passed  the  awful  genii,  where  the  wrecks  were  piled  high; 
where  cars,  crushed  to  bits,  broken  harnesses  and  stallions 
were  piled  in  intricable  masses. 

One  more  danger  lay  between  both,  and  victory.  In  an- 
other instant  the  competing  charioteers  were  before  it. 

The  mass  of  the  Corinthian  and  Syracusan  wreck  must 
now  be  passed  —  must  be  met,  at  perilously  close  quarters. 

Xenias,  as  the  sixty  thousand  bending,  agonized,  enrap- 
tured on-lookers  perceived,  intended  to  keep  his  place.  He 
was  pulling  his  four  together  preparatory  to  driving  his  car 
between  the  Libyan  and  the  fallen  chariots.  His  prac- 
ticed eye  had  calculated  the  space;  with  his  skill  in  steer- 
ing he  could  do  it!  But  there  would  not  be  an  inch  to 
spare. 

The  whole  vast  audience  now  stood  upon  their  feet. 
Every  eye  was  fixed,  and  each  man  felt  his  breath  upon  his 
lip.  For  there  was  impending  tragedy  in  the  very  air. 
Porus  was  about  to  furnish  an  incident  never  before  seen  in 
the  Hippodrome. 

As  he  lay,  squeezed  tight  between  two  wheels,  he  had  seen 
the  light  of  victory  in  Xenias'  eyes. 

Porus  peered  forth.  The  moment  was  propitious.  Porus 
proceeded  to  crawl  forth  from  between  wheels  and  traces. 
At  the  very  instant  of  Xenias'  flight  past  his  ruin,  Porus 
lifted  his  fallen  goad.  He  smiled,  joyously,  as  might  one  in 
delirium,  at  re-capturing  a  toy.  But  as  he  lifted  the  torture 
instrument,  he  cunningly  managed  to  point  its  murderous 
end  outward. 

As  Xenias  flew  past,  the  goad  caught  in  his  out-blown 
tunic.  The  goad  held  good;  its  sharp  point  dug  deep  into 
the  coarse  garment's  light-texture. 

In  an  instant  Xenias  had  been  flung  out  of  his  car,  and 
the  Theban  had  dropped.  His  kicking  horses  were  better 
than  to  meet  the  rage  of  that  flame-lit  face. 


THE  CHARIOT  RACE  191 

But  the  car  had  kept  on!  The  eight  horses  still  were 
neck  and  neck.  And  there  was  such  a  little,  such  a  very 
short  way  to  run,  before  the  column  of  Hippodamia  was  to 
be  reached. 

As  Pollux  had  felt  his  driver  drop,  and  the  reins  flap,  he 
had  turned.  His  fierce  eyes  appeared  to  take  in  the  situa- 
tion.— 

He  sprang  to  his  work  like  one  possessed,  but  one  full, 
also,  of  a  mighty  purpose.  The  near  pole  horse  showed 
signs  of  breaking.  Pollux  tossed  his  head,  gave  the  beast 
a  knock,  as  he  plunged  onward.  Raising  his  noble  head, 
with  a  snort  he  increased  his  speed.  The  others  seemed 
willing  to  be  led. 

.The  car  was  now  a  good  head's  length  ahead.  But  the 
Libyan's  Arabians  were  pressing  close  —  now  they  gained  a 
little  —  now  they  lost. 

"  By  the  gods  of  luck !  "  shouted  Glaucus,  "  I  believe  he'll 
do  it."  He  was  beside  himself  —  he  hugged  Ion  without 
knowing  it. 

Ion  felt  himself '  suddenly  frozen  with  a  strange  calm. 

"  Yes,  I  agree  with  you  —  I  think  he  will  — " 

"  Provided  only  he  passes  the  goal  at  that  pace." 

"  The  goal  at  that  pace  " —  Ion  heard  himself  faintly 
echoing. 

Then  the  mighty  thunder  of  sixty  thousand  shouting 
voices  rocked  the  very  earth.  It  rolled  on  and  on  —  it 
broke  only  to  begin  anew. 

For  Xenias  was,  also,  proving  his  mettle.  He  was  seen 
running,  for  dear  life.  He  ran  like  an  athlete.  He  had 
crossed  the  track,  while  all  eyes  had  been  fixed  on  wonder- 
ful Pollux.  He  was  making  unheard-of  time,  as  he  rushed 
towards  the  goal. 

Ion's  heart,  and  the  hearts  of  thousands  of  that  suddenly 
silenced  crowd,  stopped  beating. 


i92         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

"  He  intends  to  head  them  off,"  cried  Timoleon. 

"  He  intends  " —  Then  Ion  heard  a  deafening  roar  in  his 
ears.  Yet  he  was  able  to  remember,  quite  distinctly,  having 
seen  Xenias  race  once,  in  full  armour,  on  the  beach,  at 
Phalerum,  against  Glaucus'  famous  four.  Dazed,  weak- 
ened with  the  long  strain,  Ion  could  not  now  clearly  see  his 
racing  charioteer. 

Yet,  there  he  was,  panting,  breathless.  He  had  done  his 
stint  in  unrecorded  swiftness  of  time. 

Just  beyond  the  goal,  indeed,  Xenias  stood  waiting  — 
what  was  he  waiting  for?  Why,  in  God's  name,  did  he  not 
make  a  dash  for  the  car? 

Then— "The  horse!  The  horse!  Long  live  Pollux !'* 
came  like  crashing  thunder  with  long  reverberating  roll  — 
from  the  crowd.  For  the  crowd  was  gone  mad. 

And  Ion  woke  up. 

As  out  of  a  dream  he  had  seen  Pollux  tearing  ahead,  keep- 
ing the  lead.  The  Libyan  was  close  beside  —  was  within 
half  a  length.  He  was  over  the  haunches  of  his  dashing 
Arabians,  whose  swiftness  was  now  like  the  wind. 

For  a  single,  awful  moment  the  two  cars  were  side 
by  side.  The  eight  stallions  were  eight  maddened  racers, 
each  conscious  the  great  moment  was  theirs  to  win  or 
lose. 

The  vast  crowd  hung  as  one  man,  breathless,  gasping  — 
too  far  gone  in  an  ecstasy  of  rapt  excitement  to  shout. 

Then,  as  all  looked,  Pollux  was  seen  to  toss  his  spirited 
head  —  he  drew  the  team  on  —  he  made  a  frantic  plunge 
forward  — 

He  had  passed  the  Libyan  —  He  was  half  a  head's  length 
beyond ! 

The  crowd  had  found  its  voice.  Pollux  was  called  to, 
was  cursed,  was  blessed,  was  acclaimed  as  though  he  were 
a  deity  made  mortal,  racing  to  divine  honours. 


THE  CHARIOT  RACE  193 

Did  Pollux  hear?  He  held  his  lead.  A  second  spurt, 
and  he  had  passed  the  Goal! 

The  race  was  his ! 

Scarcely  had  he  passed  the  Judges'  stand,  when  he  found 
Xenias  beside  the  car.  The  charioteer  gathered  the  reins 
in  his  firm  wrists  just  as  they  were  falling  about  ^Eolean's 
feet. 

As  Xenias  sprang  into  his  car,  as  he  grasped  the  ribbons, 
such  a  thunderous  roar  burst  forth  as  shook  the  very  hills. 
The  over-wrought  crowd  shouted,  wept,  sang, —  men 
clasped  strangers  to  their  breasts,  and  others  tore  their  gar- 
lands to  fling  them  down,  hoping  to  crown  Xenias,  as  he 
made  the  tour  of  the  course. 

The  Herald  was  now  sounding  his  trumpet,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment the  roar  of  applause  died  down. 

Who  would  be  acclaimed?  Would  it  be  the  car  or  the 
horse  ?  When  "  Pollux  "  was  melodiously  voiced,  the  multi- 
tude went  into  fresh  raptures. 

As  the  beautiful  car  passed  before  the  judges'  stand,  Ion 
saw  his  father  sway,  and  those  beside  him  upheld  him.  Joy 
had  overwhelmed  him. 

Ion  made  his  way  as  best  he  could,  through  the  ever 
gathering  sea  of  faces,  of  pressing,  obstrusive  figures.  He 
answered  as  well  as  he  could,  the  ringing  shouts,  the  ap- 
plause, the  almost  loving  salutations  of  men  whose  faces 
were  those  of  strangers. 

At  last  he  stood  beside  his  car.  Those  who  were  crowd- 
ing about  the  victorious  quadriga  made  way  for  its  owner  to 
come  nearer. 

As  though  he  felt  his  dear  Master's  nearness,  Pollux 
turned  his  head.  His  quickened  breath  was  still  lifting  the 
round  belly,  and  the  beautiful  eyes  glowed  with  fiery  flame. 
But  as  they  met  Ion's,  Pollux  seemed  to  send  his  dumb  soul 
through  the  blazing  orbs. 


194         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

With  an  irresistable,  overwhelming  impulse,  Ion  flung 
himself  forward.  In  an  instant  he  had  his  arms  about  his 
beloved  winner.  He  lay,  sobbing,  upon  the  moist  shoulder. 
Pollux  moved  his  head.  He  sent  his  warm  breath  upon  his 
Master's  neck,  for  his  reward  was  come  to  him. 


BOOK  III  — ATHENS 

Chapter  XVII 

A   MARRIAGE   PROJECT 

A  MONTH  later,  the  Piraean  Port  and  its  three  harbours 
were  astir  with  life  and  motion.  Through  the  great  gates 
in  the  walls,  the  sea  sparkled  and  spoke. 

Ships  slipped  from  out  their  moorings;  their  sails'  snowy 
whiteness,  and  the  browns,  blues,  and  tan-coloured  shrouds 
of  smaller  craft  cast  long  trails  of  colour  across  the  violet- 
blue  waters. 

Such  pictures,  bristling  with  motion,  were  framed  in 
stone.  Flanked  by  their  tall  square  towers,  the  double 
gates  showed  to  the  sea  their  fortified  strength. 

Aloft,  the  hills  arose,  on  either  side,  sloping  to  the  plain 
whereon  mighty  Athens  and  its  Port  lay  cradled,  as  though 
rocked  by  the  chorusing  hills. 

Across  the  shore,  beyond  the  sea,  azure  blue,  the  gauzy 
hills  of  Argolis  hung  like  filmy  draperies,  stretched  against 
the  golden  tinted  horizon.  And  wherever  the  eye  rested, 
temples  and  statues  of  the  gods  uprose,  rosy,  bloom-touched, 
in  the  pink  of  the  morning  glow. 

A  world  of  men  was  gathered  in  the  Agoras,  and  under 
the  colonnades.  Shrieks,  calls,  and  yells  made  a  deafening 
confusion  of  sound.  Local  and  foreign  deities  were  in- 
voked, in  every  known  tongue  and  dialect,  to  bless  a  bar- 
gain, to  be  witness  to  truth,  and  to  visit  immediate  punish- 
ment were  not  the  maker  of  a  vow  to  fulfil  the  same. 

Busy  as  was  the  scene,  a  sudden  lull  came.  To  the  cries 
195 


i96         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

and  yells  of  buyers  and  of  officials,  there  succeeded  that 
peculiar  hush  that  announces,  in  a  crowd,  the  hearing  of 
news.  Groups  were  formed,  and  men  stumbled  over  each 
other  to  listen. 

Suddenly,  a  shout  rang  out. 

And  the  cause  of  the  excitement  was  quickly  commun- 
icated. 

"  Ion's  ship  has  been  sighted !  " 

"  The  chorus  is  already  assembling ! 

"  All  the  Piraeus  —  and  half  Athens  are  down  on  quais 
—  already!" 

The  news  had  spread,  indeed,  and  with  the  rapidity  of 
contagion.  The  inner  Agora  was  soon  as  deserted  as 
though  plague-stricken.  The  crowds  thronging  the  colon- 
nades had  made  a  rush  for  the  quais;  and  every  inch  of 
standing  space  on  the  docks  and  quais  was  soon  packed  with 
bare  and  with  sandalled  feet.  All  other  business  save  that 
of  helping  to  celebrate  the  home-coming  of  the  now  world- 
famous  Olympian  victor  had  been  suspended. 

Ion,  standing  on  the  deck  of  his  trim  ship,  felt  his  very 
heart  stand  still. 

How  many  months  had  passed  since  he  had  seen  the  violet 
home  seas!  Ah-h!  there  were  the  giant  walls  —  golden- 
tinted,  yet  showing  their  fortified  strength!  Here,  skim- 
ming over  the  waters,  were  the  purple  and  crimson  sails! 
There  were  the  huge  gates  and  the  uplifted  towers,  and, 
shining  like  a  glorified  city,  far  away,  out  of  some  fair 
dream,  yonder,  its  tinted  temples  and  marbles  painted 
against  the  azure  —  was  the  home  of  Pallas  Athena ! 

As  Ion  sailed  into  the  inner  harbour,  his  eyes,  sharpened 
to  see  each  and  every  detail,  as  never  he  had  seen  them 
before,  saw  another  vision,  shining  from  out  the  depths  of 
the  sea.  Beneath  the  wine-tinted  waters,  the  rounded 


A  MARRIAGE  PROJECT  197 

columns  of  the  great  docks,  sunk  below  the  sea-level,  shone 
like  those  of  a  submerged  city. 

How  clear  was  every  line  and  curve  of  that  temple  of 
commerce  whose  base  was  the  sea  level  and  whose  roof  was 
the  liquid  sky! 

"  Oh !  Athens !  Athens !  what  or  who  can  equal  thee,  in 
either  beauty  or  trade?"  burst  from  Ion,  in  uncontrollable 
delight. 

Then,  the  next  instant,  he  felt  his  very  breath  taken  from 
him. 

For  now  he  saw,  in  his  turn,  that  all  the  Piraeus  and  half 
Athens  had,  indeed,  assembled  to  greet  him. 

Thick  as  was  the  crowd,  Ion  soon  caught  the  bloom  of 
Glaucus'  corn  locks,  shining  beneath  the  golden  shield  of  a 
high-placed  Athena.  For  even  along  the  quais  and  the 
outer  colonnade,  statues  and  living  men  were  inextricably 
mixed.  Timoleon  he  saw  smiling  his  welcome  from  below 
his  favourite  Hermes.  His  father  was  stretching  eager 
arms  towards  him  close  to  one  of  Fortune's  altars,  and  the 
dear  goddess  seemed  to  be  tripping  out  to  him,  as  though, 
also,  to  greet  him,  with  her  outstretched  wings  and  her 
speeding  feet. 

Then,  with  a  crash,  there  rang  upon  his  ears  the  melo- 
dious outburst  of  cheering  thousands.  As  the  resonant 
Greek  voices  rilled  the  clear  air,  Ion  had  need  of  all  his 
self-control,  for  he  seemed  not  standing  but  soaring,  and 
out  of  the  bright  skies  the  twelve  gods  were  surely  shining 
down  upon  him. 

As  his  father  clasped  him  to  his  heart,  ringing  plaudits 
smote  Ion's  dazed  ears.  The  commoner  crowd  gave  way. 
The  higher  powers  of  the  Port  were  eager  to  salute  the 
victor.  Ion  was  told  he  had  conferred  the  greatest  possible 
honour  upon  his  birth-place;  he  had  lifted  the  Pirasus  to  an 


i98         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

envied  plane  —  this  day  would  be  remembered  long  after 
he  was  dead.  To  celebrate  as  glorious  a  victory,  one  the 
port  must  claim  as  its  own,  the  whole  town  was  given  over 
to  feasting.  To  prove  this  truth,  thunderous  cheers  rent 
the  air. 

To  the  glad  music  of  shouting  voices  Ion  was  led  on  as 
a  conqueror,  to  a  breach  in  the  wall. 

Through  the  mighty  thickness  Themistocles  had  built,  an 
opening  had  been  made.  The  Olympian  victor  must  enter 
his  birthplace,  by  a  new  and  an  unused  door. 

Scarcely  had  Ion  passed  through  the  breach,  when  melo- 
dious voices  burst  forth,  in  sonorous  unison,  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  many-tongued  lyres.  The  costumed  chorus  of 
hired  singers  and  dancers  awaited  the  victor,  to  accompany 
him  to  his  father's  house.  Even  Ion's  fiercest  detracters 
must  listen  to  the  honied  Pseon.  His  name  wTas  being 
chanted,  in  strophe  and  anti-strophe;  he  heard  his  feats  of 
strength,  the  glories  of  his  recent  victory,  the  praises  of  his 
person  and  house  compared  to  the  most  glorious  achievements 
of  old  historic  houses,  of  Homeric  heroes.  Once  under  the 
familiar  house  porch,  his  emotion  found  vent  in  sudden, 
passionate  outburst. 

Before  the  eyes  of  all,  he  swept  his  arms  about  his  father. 

"  Tell  me,  dear  father,  that  you  are  satisfied.  Then  will 
this  hour  of  glory  be  crowned  indeed !  " 

Crates  clasped  Ion  close.  His  breaking  voice  could  scarce 
command  itself.  The  real  answer  to  his  son's  words,  was 
his  own  beating  heart,  throbbing  its  gratified  emotion  against 
Ion's  breast.  The  eyes  of  both  were  wet,  as  Crates  half 
chanted,  half  sang  — 

"  The  life  of  the  gods  themselves,  in  Heaven,  dearest  Ion, 
is  not  as  full  of  bliss  as  mine,  through  thee." 

The  chorus,   circling  before   the   door,   burst   then   into 


A  MARRIAGE  PROJECT  199 

melodious  finale.  A  fresh  garland  was  flung  toward  Ion, 
and  fell,  where  it  was  designed  to  fall,  across  his  heaving 
breast.  To  mark  the  finish  of  this  triumph  as  complete, 
three  runners,  from  Athens,  brought  Ion  the  news  of  fresh 
honours.  Place  would  be  made  for  his  votive  statue,  the 
one  his  father  had  ordered  to  commemorate  his  victory, 
close  to  the  gardens  of  Aphrodite.  In  the  Pirzeus,  the  city 
itself  was  to  take  charge  of  his  portrait-statue,  the  archon 
announced,  at  the  long  and  splendid  banquet  given  by 
Crates,  to  the  most  illustrious  guests. 

In  the  days  and  weeks  that  followed,  Ion  experienced,  in 
practical  ways,  the  privileges  Athens  accorded  to  an  Olym- 
pian victor.  His  appearance,  at  the  Prytanieum,  where,  as 
Olympian  victor,  it  was  his  privilege  to  eat  at  the  City's 
expense,  became  the  event  of  the  day.  He  was  made  to 
rehearse  his  race,  to  the  last  detail.  The  cleverest,  the  most 
distinguished,  listened  to  his  recital  with  a  kind  of  awe. 

Political  preferment  had  followed  swift  on  social  and 
civic  honours.  Ion's  name  was  on  men's  lips,  for  election 
as  a  regimental  commander,  at  the  next  meeting  of  the 
phyle. 

Shortly  after  his  election,  Alcibiades,  through  Timoleon, 
made  flattering  propositions  —  would  Ion  undertake  a  secret 
mission  to  Delos?  Some  one,  who  could  be  trusted,  must 
be  sent  to  learn  if  the  mighty  priests  of  Apollo  would  be 
friendly,  in  their  attitude,  were  the  Sicilian  war  to  come  off. 

This  was  a  mission  exactly  suited  to  Ion's  tastes.  He 
went  forth  with  spirit  as  light  as  though  he  were  equipped 
with  Mercury's  wings. 

It  was  during  his  absence,  that  the  Fates  began  to  twist 
the  tangled  threads  that  were  to  bind  together  the  future 
destinies  of  several  lives. 

On  one  brilliant  morning,  in  late  Pyanepsion  (October) 
a  very  distinguished  Athenian,  the  famous  art-critic,  Critias 


200         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

—  giver  of  banquets,  much  addicted  to  a  turning  of  couplets, 
in  the  style  that  was  in  vogue  in  Pericles'  day  —  and  equally 
given  to  lavish  expenditure  —  a  folly  that  made  his  dull 
verses  and  silly  conundrums  alone  endurable —  this  elderly 
aristocrat  went  down  to  the  Piraeus  on  his  usual  errand  — 
that  of  borrowing  money. 

Also  as  usual,  Critias  sought,  among  the  bankers  assem- 
bled in  the  inner  Agora,  for  Crates'  familiar  figure.  Crates, 
his  clerks  said,  in  reply  to  the  Athenian's  inquiries,  was  down 
at  the  docks.  And  down  at  the  docks,  striding  the  quais 
with  agitated  steps,  Critias  found  his  man.  To  his  annoy- 
ance, however,  Crates,  for  a  banker  with  vast  sums  to  loan, 
had  a  mind  a  hundred  stadia  away  from  business. 

"  Conceive  of  my  disappointment  O  Critias !  Ion,  who 
was  to  have  been  here  this  very  day  —  now  cannot  possibly 
set  sail  from  Delos  for  another  day  or  more  —  the  winds 
have  driven  the  sea  to  tremendous  heights  — " 

Critias'  somewhat  fatigued  features  took  on  the  polite 
mask  of  sympathy.  Critias  had  not  come  down  from  Athens 
to  discuss  the  state  of  Delian  weather  with  a  banker  and 
shipping  merchant.  He  had  come  to  replenish  a  depleted 
purse. 

Gradually,  Crates  was  led  on  to  business.  Once  the 
Athenian's  errand  was  made  known,  and  Crates,  at  the 
third  turn  of  the  quays,  was  once  more  banker  and  mer- 
chant. The  strong  eyes  had  narrowed.  The  glow  had  gone 
out  of  the  face.  Crates  was,  at  last,  wearing  the  mask  of 
those  part  of  whose  vast  business  it  is  to  lend,  but  to  lend, 
at  the  highest  possible  interest. 

Critias,  as  usual,  was  magnificently  indifferent  to  the  terms 
set.  He  belonged  to  the  class  of  men  who  pocket  borrowed 
money  with  an  air  of  having  come  into  an  inheritance. 

Self-centred,  like  all  of  his  class,  Critias,  having  secured 


A  MARRIAGE  PROJECT  201 

the  loan  at  not  too  ruinous  terms,  was  in  haste  to  be  off. 
His  favourite  roadster  and  his  town-cart  were  awaiting  him, 
at  the  outer  gate  of  the  inner  Agora. 

He  was  in  the  very  act  of  turning,  with  hasty  farewell, 
when  he  felt  his  arm  gripped. 

Crates'  face,  he  saw,  was  aglow  —  the  warm  colour  was 
dyeing  cheeks  and  brow. 

Crates  stopped,  turned  a  flushed  face  towards  Critias,  and 
seemed  to  be  struggling  with  an  attempt  to  frame  words  that 
were  difficult  to  utter.  Critias,  whose  eyes  were  sharpened, 
as  are  all  art-critics,  to  detect  the  slightest  changes  in  the 
human  countenance,  felt  his  curiosity  suddenly  on  edge. 
What,  in  the  name  of  the  lesser  gods  —  could  the  banker- 
merchant  have  to  say  to  him  —  thus  to  dye  his  cheeks? 

To  Crates,  the  second  most  critical  moment  of  his  whole 
life  seemed  to  be  before  him.  Next  to  having  seen  Pollux 
clear  the  goal,  the  question  that  now  trembled  on  his  lips 
was  to  bring  highest  happiness  or  failure  —  failure  too  hu- 
miliating to  face. 

Why  it  should  have  been  here,  in  this  busy  mart  of  men, 
with  all  the  cries  of  the  Port  ringing  in  their  ears, —  why 
he  should  have  been  inspired  to  put  the  great  test  of  his 
burning  desire  —  the  hope  that  had  been  nursed  these  months 
—  here  —  Crates  could  never  make  clear,  to  his  own  mind, 
in  later  periods  of  reflection. 

Yet,  it  was  as  if  a  god  had  spoken !  He  felt  himself  im- 
pelled to  speak. 

"Ah-h  —  my  friend  — a  word  before  you  go,  if  you 
please  — " 

"  Twenty  —  if  you  wish  — " 

Encouraged  by  the  Athenian's  courtesy,  Crates  sucked  in 
his  breath. 

"You  have  a  daughter,  I  hear?"  Crates  presently  said, 


202         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

with  an  innocent,  casual  air.  His  wary,  calculating  eyes 
were  aslant,  and  his  lean  ringers  played  calmly  with  his  tab- 
let, as  he  scanned  Critias'  aristocratic,  sunken  features. 

"  I  have  —  but  only  one  —  the  gods  be  thanked !  "  cried 
Critias,  and  he  re-adjusted  the  folds  of  his  mantle. 

"  And  I  have  a  son,"  Crates  announced,  laconically.  He 
faced  Critias'  questioning  eyes  with  a  deep  glance  laden  with 
meaning. 

"  You  have  —  and  one  who  is  a  credit  to  you,  or  to  any 
Athenian  father,"  Critias  was  in  haste  to  cry  out.  The 
scent  of  possibilities  was,  indeed,  now  thick  upon  him. 

"  Well  —  and  that  is  the  sort  of  man  he  seems  to  me. 
All  praise  him,  and  with  justice."  Crates  leaned  back 
against  a  column.  Still  he  was  fixing  Critias  with  his  keen, 
clear  eyes.  He  paused  —  to  give  a  better  emphasis  to  what 
was  coming.  "  Why  then,  not  marry  him  to  your  daugh- 
ter?" he  asked,  suddenly,  starting  to  an  upright,  as  if  the 
thought  had  been  born  of  the  moment. 

Why  not?"  he  continued,  as  though  willing  to  debate 
the  question,  in  an  impersonal,  passionless  way,  "  he  has 
honour  and  distinction.  If,  however,  it  be  a  question,  also, 
of  money — " 

Critias  here  raised  his  arm.  A  slow,  pompous  gesture 
seemed  to  sweep  away  into  the  bright  air  so  vulgar  a  sugges- 
tion. Critias'  eyes  however  had  brightened.  A  covetous 
glow  suffused  his  features.  "  Come,"  he  cried,  softly,  in 
the  tones  a  man  uses  when  caressing  an  agreeable  project. 
"  Come  —  dear  friend  —  and  let  us  walk  up  the  colonnade 
—  you  can  tell  me  more  of  what  is  in  your  mind." 

What  Critias  found  to  be  in  Crates'  mind  enraptured  him. 
Ion,  as  the  son  of  this  wealthy  Pirasan  ship-merchant,  so  far 
from  his  father  demanding  a  dowry,  would  himself  bring  a 
large  fortune  for  the  privilege  of  allying  his  son  with  as 
noble  a  maiden  as  Myrto,  For  Crates  to  aspire  to  such 


A  MARRIAGE  PROJECT  203 

connections  was  in  itself  proof  of  where  his  wealth  and  Ion's 
victory  had  placed  him.  Critias  found,  indeed,  that  Crates 
understood  the  laws  of  good  society,  almost  as  well  as  he 
had  ship-building  and  commerce.  He  took  the  exactly  right 
view  of  the  part  money  should  play  in  matrimonial  bargains, 
to  wit:  —  that  he  who  had  most  to  gain  should  pay,  and 
pay  high. 

As  for  Ion  himself,  although  like  Myrto,  he  was  only  a 
necessary  detail  of  the  transaction,  he  was,  fortunately,  a 
son-in-law  with  whom  even  Critias  could  have  something  in 
common.  He  was  handsome,  extravagant,  a  lover  of  the 
chase  and  become  famous.  At  several  of  the  Symposia 
also,  as  Critias  reflected  with  patronising  condescension  — 
he  had  heard  him  turn  a  couplet  as  neatly  as  he,  Critias, 
could  himself. 

After  a  few  moment's  further  talk,  Critias  considered  the 
matter  as  good  as  settled.  He  thought  it  wise,  indeed,  to 
clinch  the  match  by  making  the  project  known,  and  at  once, 
to  his  wife  Hermione. 

Crates,  on  his  part,  had  moved  towards  his  waiting  litter. 
His  heart  was  surging  with  rapture.  He  noted  little  or 
nothing  of  the  stir  and  bustle  about  him. 

One  picture,  alone,  was  to  rivet  his  gaze,  as  he  gained  a 
certain  elevation. 

Across  the  plain,  upon  the  opposite  hill-slope,  a  priestess 
came  forth  from  the  inner  gloom  of  the  temple  of  Aphro- 
dite. Long  after,  Crates  remembered  that  the  priestess  had 
worn  a  violet  robe.  The  delicate  draperies  bloomed  and 
fluttered,  for  a  moment's  space,  against  the  harmonies  of  the 
polychrome  structure. 

Aphrodite's  priestess  was  busy,  apparently,  with  some  tem- 
ple treasure.  A  vase  of  some  sort  glittered  and  sparkled, 
as  she  stood  rubbing  the  precious  object.  Had  Aphrodite 
sent  her  messenger?  Had  the  great  goddess  deigned  to  give 


204          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

celestial  warning,  in  human  shape,  that  in  such  transactions 
—  when  men  bargained  in  human  hearts  —  they  should 
sometimes  count  with  the  sea-born,  laughter-loving  divinity  ? 

Yet  Love  —  except  of  the  feeble  matrimonial  sort,  had 
assuredly,  no  weight  in  Athenian  marriage  contracts.  Even 
Crates,  who  might  be  termed  a  man  of  sentiment,  looked 
with  calm,  unheeding  eyes  at  Aphrodite's  Temple.  That  in 
any  way  the  divine  goddess  should  feel  her  altars  or  her 
worship  slighted,  by  uniting  a  man  and  a  maiden  who,  as 
yet,  knew  nothing,  except  in  a  vague  way,  of  each  other's 
existence,  demanded  a  stretch  of  the  imagination  as  great  as 
such  a  thought  was  in  itself,  surely,  an  act  of  impiety  —  to 
great  Hestia  —  the  goddess  of  marriage. 

Crates  forgot  the  familiar  incident,  only  to  remember  it 
years  later.  Now  his  one  thought  was  — 

What  news  for  Ion!  Smiling  Fortune  had  crowned,  at 
last,  Crates  cried  to  his  exultant  senses,  his  most  ambitious 
hopes.  With  such  a  marriage  —  and  all  that  its  great  con- 
nections would  bring  —  Ion  surely  might  now  aspire  to  all 
Athens  had  to  give. 

On  Ion's  return,  however,  Crates  was  to  find  that  there 
were  two  ways  of  looking  at  a  matrimonial  project. 

When  Crates  announced  the  great  news,  Ion  turned  upon 
his  father  as  though  the  latter  had  struck  him  a  blow. 

"  O  father !  father !  —  why  could  you  not  let  well  enough 
alone !  "  was  Ion's  bitter  outburst. 

Crates,  in  his  turn,  experienced  the  first  shock  of  severe 
disappointment  Ion  had  ever  given  him. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  he  asked,  angrily. 
"  Have  you  some  secret  —  something  you  wish  to  conceal  ?  " 
And  Ion  met  the  flaming  eyes  that  seemed  to  scorch  him 
with  the  feeling  of  one  who  was  seeing  a  new  man  in  his 
own  father. 

In  an  instant  Ion's  anger  died  within  him.     For  to  see 


A  MARRIAGE    PROJECT  205 

his  father  thus  wrought  upon  by  passionate  indignation, 
brought  Ion  to  the  melting  point  at  once.  After  all,  what 
valid  excuse  could  he  present?  Why  should  he  not  seek 
to  please  his  father  ?  There  was  no  tie  in  his  love-life,  suffi- 
ciently binding,  to  prevent  his  contracting  marriage.  That 
adorable  Maia  —  the  one  woman  he  had  ever  seen,  worthy  of 
love  —  in  spite  of  her  letters,  of  her  repeated  assurances  she 
would  come  —  to  join  him,  here  in  Athens  —  the  possibility 
of  her  fulfilling  her  promises,  was  very  unlikely.  That  old 
Nirias,  who  had  married  her,  on  his  return  from  the  Games, 
was  very  slow  in  dying. 

Except  for  a  young  man's  love  of  his  liberty,  and  an  in- 
stinctive horror  of  marriage,  and  all  that  such  a  tie  must 
bring  with  it,  Ion,  whip  his  inventive  genius  as  he  might, 
could  find  no  plausible  plea  for  compelling  his  father  to  stop 
the  hateful  project. 

Ion  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  Then,  straightening  his  firm 
frame,  he  accepted  his  doom.  "  Tell  me  this,  dear  father  — 
how  far  has  the  matter  gone?  "  he  asked. 

Crates  lifted  eyes  that  showed  positive  fear.  "  Surely 
you  have  no  thought  of  entirely  withdrawing?  " 

"  No-o  —  Oh  no !  "  cried  Ion  —  with  a  drop  in  his  voice 
— "  not  if  you  wish  it  to  go  through.  Only,  you  see  —  I 
had  counted  on  a  few  more  years  of  freedom  — " 

"  Early  marriages  are  best,"  Crates  said,  with  quick  de- 
cision and  imipense  relief.  "  I  was  married  before  I  was 
five  and  twenty."  Crates  had  still  the  true  countryman's 
views  of  life. 

"  Oh father  —  the  world  has  moved  on  —  since  then. 

Men  marry  later  and  later  —  every  year.  Ah  well,"  Ion 
added  quickly,  seeing  his  father's  face  darken  again,  "  We'll 
wait  till  this  war  is  over.  You  see  —  something  may  hap- 
pen. I  might  be  taken  prisoner,  or  be  killed  outright  - 

But  Ion's  gay  laughter  died  upon  his  lip.     The  look  of 


206          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

anguish  that  convulsed  his  father's  face  moved  him  to  place 
his  arm  about  his  parent's  neck,  and  to  lay  his  cheek  close 
to  the  burning  one  beside  it,  as  he  said  half  soothingly,  half 
in  joke,  "  Well,  since  you  have  set  your  heart  upon  the 
match  —  I'll  marry  —  to  please  you  —  only,  give  me  a  few 
more  weeks  —  let  the  time  be  fixed  for  Gamelion." 

Having  gained  his  great  point,  Crates  found  concession 
easy. 

First  he  kissed  Ion  and  then  he  told  him  how  this  mar- 
riage had  been  his  dearest  heart's  desire,  and  what  a  coping 
stone  as  brilliant  an  alliance  would  place  upon  Ion's  own 
ambitions. 

"  I  remember  now  " —  Crates  added,  as  though  answering 
an  inner  doubt  — "  Critias  spoke  of  Myrto's  youth,  as  one 
objection  her  mother  might  possibly  bring  up.  They  may 
well  be  pleased  to  postpone  the  marriage  —  till  the  winter." 

"  Is  the  girl  a  beauty  —  do  you  know  anything  of  her  — 
father?  "  asked  Ion,  his  tone  not  much  more  interested  than 
had  he  been  asking  the  character  of  a  new  slave. 

It  was  Crates  who  showed  warmth.  He  was  quick  with 
his  answer.  Myrto,  he  had  learned,  on  excellent  authority, 
was  the  living  image  of  her  mother  —  only,  of  course,  as  her 
mother  was  years  ago,  when  Phidias  had  called  her  "  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  all  Athens,"  and  had  promptly  put  her 
into  marble.  For,  as  all  Athens  knew,  her  features  were 
those  of  the  famous  Juno.  . 

"  Humph !  I  had  rather  have  a  wife  who  resembled  an 
Aphrodite  —  the  Juno  type  is  not,  and  never  was,  to  my 
liking."  Ion  laughed  lightly  —  but  he  also  frowned.  This 
being  mated  to  a  model  of  all  the  domestic  virtues  —  No !  — 
there  was  nothing  attractive  in  such  a  prospect.  The  Furies 
take  all  this  talk  of  marriage!  However,  if  he  could  but 
manage  to  put  it  off,  for  a  few  months,  he  might  be  willing 
to  entertain  the  project.  If  the  child  were  really  a  beauty, 


A  MARRIAGE  PROJECT  207 

and  not  too  much  of  the  Juno-type,  one  might  do  worse 
things  in  life  than  to  marry  Critias'  daughter. 

Then,  as  the  morning  wore  on,  Ion  felt  the  mounting 
of  a  certain  dry  humour.  What  a  comical  sight  would  be 
Timoleon's  —  would  Glaucus'  face  present,  when  he  should 
divulge  the  great  news!  Timoleon,  for  one,  would  assur- 
edly not  be  pleased,  for  once  he,  Ion,  married  to  the  daughter 
of  as  celebrated  a  house  as  that  of  the  Alcmaeonidae  and 
Timoleon  must  sheath  his  sword  of  contempt.  An  Olym- 
pian victor  and  the  member  of  as  great  a  family,  and  there 
would  be  few  in  all  Athens  to  be  considered  his,  Ion's, 
superior. 

Long  before  the  mid-day  meal  had  finished,  Ion  had  begun 
to  see  in  this  proposed  alliance  several  glorious  possibilities. 


Chapter  XVIII 

AN   ATHENIAN   DAWN 

ON  the  site  of  that  busy  labyrinth  of  narrow  streets  where 
devout  strangers  and  learned  men  are  still  searching  for  the 
sure  signs  that  shall  fix,  beyond  the  questionings  of  doubt, 
the  limits  of  Athens'  ancient  thoroughfares,  other  streets,  far 
more  crooked,  converged  upon  the  street  of  Hermes. 
Towards  this  winding  dromos  a  tall,  lithe  shape  was  hurry- 
ing, in  the  greyish  blue  of  dawn,  in  the  year  415  before  our 
Lord  came.  Dim  as  was  the  light,  this  early  riser  made 
his  way,  with  effortless  ease,  from  out  the  lower  precinct  of 
the  Agora. 

No  one,  indeed,  knew  better  than  Timoleon  his  crooked 
Athenian  streets.  None  had  a  sweeter  patience  with  the  ob- 
stacles to  quick  progress  Athenians  on  foot  must  expect  in 
this  crowded  time,  when  every  nook  and  secret  hole  in  the 
famous  city  were  as  highly  prized  as  a  refuge,  as  though 
they  were  a  palace. 

As  Timoleon  neared  his  goal,  sweeter,  cleaner  scents  met 
the  nostrils.  Tiny  garden  enclosures  sent  forth  the  pun- 
gent scents  of  parsley,  narcissi,  and  roses.  Timoleon  slipped 
his  grace,  with  his  mantle  held  tight,  in  between  dairymen's 
carts  redolent  of  cheeses  and  milk,  fresh  from  the  Attic  plain. 
Tradesmen  fumbling  at  the  locks  of  their  wooden  shutters; 
butchers  and  fishmongers  sleepily  opening  out  their  broad 
counters;  and  the  flower-vendors,  their  baskets  piled  high, 
would  glance  at  the  hurrying  figure,  only  to  see  it  disappear 
around  the  next  street  corner.  A  lengthening  row  of  low 
irregularly  built  houses  —  here  and  there  a  tall  poplar  or 

208 


AN  ATHENIAN  DAWN  209 

the  circle  of  a  cypress  rising  above  garden  walls  —  black 
shapes  against  the  violet  dawn  —  the  painted  face  of  a 
Hecate,  or  a  sculptured  Apollo  Aquieus  built  into  the  dead 
walls  of  the  houses,  together  with  the  regimented  Hermae  — 
the  common  gods  of  households  —  such  dim  outlines  and 
shapes  told  Timoleon  he  had  reached  Athens'  most  fashion- 
able street  of  residences  —  the  Street  of  Hermes. 

Past  all  such  Timoleon  slipped  with  noiseless  ease. 
Closer  still,  about  his  chin,  he  drew  his  mantle.  His  long- 
ing was  —  to  pass  by  unsaluted,  should  he  meet  a  friend. 
Of  all  things  —  secrecy  was  essential.  To  carry  the  little 
adventure  before  him  to  a  successful  finish,  he  must  be  both 
unseen  and  his  progress  be  unimpeded.  The  gods  be 
praised  —  at  least  no  banqueters  were  abroad  in  this  all- 
too-fashionable  thoroughfare ! 

At  a  certain  turn  in  the  street  Timoleon  started,  stopped 
short  as,  in  his  turn,  his  oath  broke  from  him.  His  prayer 
of  praise  had  been  premature.  His  impious  outburst,  how- 
ever, helped  him  to  think,  and  quickly. 

With  a  swift  turn  of  his  hand,  he  swept  his  himation 
from  its  tight  folds  about  his  chin;  he  flung  it  in  its  usual 
formal  sweep,  beneath  the  right  arm  and  over  the  left 
shoulder. 

He  straightened  his  head  and  walked  forward. 
A  receding  porch,  and  two  or  three  narrow,  upper  win- 
dows told  him  the  facade  of  a  familiar  house  was  before 
him.  The  torches,  on  house  and  porch,  played  their  fitful 
light.  Loosened  chitons,  mantles  trailing  in  the  dust  — 
flushed  faces  and  garlanded  heads  —  these  shapes  trembled 
and  swayed,  danced  or  staggered,  upon  the  yellow  wall  sur- 
faces. With  the  subsidence  of  the  torches,  the  picture  was 
g0ne  —  lost  in  the  violet  blues  of  the  dusk. 

When  next  the  torches  flared,  they  showed  contrasting 
shapes.  The  faces  of  the  revellers  were  grey  or  empurpled, 


2io         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

in  the  conflicting  dawn  and  resin-tangled  light.  Pure-fea- 
tured, calm-eyed,  as  gods  should  be,  the  guardian  Hermae 
stood  straight  and  stiff  in  their  midst,  yet  with  benign  as- 
pect, as  though  to  breathe  a  divine  compassion  upon  human 
frailty. 

Timoleon's  set,  fixed  features,  with  the  smile  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  summoning  to  his  expressive  lips,  confessed  the 
young  man's  annoyance  only  in  its  complete  absence  of  merri- 
ment. 

A  merry  shout  greeted  his  appearance.  The  more  youth- 
ful shapes  swept  towards  him. 

"  Ah-h  —  and  here's  Timoleon !  Well  met !  Come,  lend 
us  thy  shoulder." 

"  No !  —  come  hither  — 'tis  my  legs  that  are  weakest !  " 

"  No  —  mine  —  mine !  " 

"And  what  of  ours?  —  we  who  have  been  singing  and 
playing  all  night  are,  surely,  of  all  of  you,  in  greatest  need 
of  firm  support !  "  With  the  glee  of  children,  two  flute- 
girls  made  a  sudden  dash  for  Timoleon's  composed  figure. 
With  frolicsome  laughter  they  flung  themselves  upon  him, 
flutes  and  lyres  whirling  in  mid-air.  They  and  their  draper- 
ies were  swept  against  the  young  man's  dark-clad  form. 

The  group  of  young  men  fell  back.  With  a  joyous  shout, 
they  watched  the  girls  circling  the  young  man's  neck  with 
their  arms.  Each  was  struggling  for  complete  capture. 

"  That  settles  it  —  Timoleon  —  there's  no  fighting  such 
weapons  as  those." 

Timoleon,  however,  appeared  to  think  otherwise.  He 
smiled  with  sober  gravity.  He  paid  his  salute  to  the  fair 
girlish  faces  close  to  his  own.  Then,  with  quick  and  dex- 
terous fingers,  he  loosened  the  clasp  of  the  encircling  arms. 

To  Erinna  he  gave  Phocia's  shoulder,  as  a  supporting 
base  for  slackened  muscles ;  Phocia,  in  lieu  of  Timoleon's  un- 
yielding form,  found  she  must  furnish,  instead  of  seeking, 


AN  ATHENIAN  DAWN  211 

support.  The  girls  laughed  and  looked  foolish;  but  they 
kept  the  pose  Timoleon's  deft  hand  had  given  to  them. 

"  Manifestly,  Timoleon,  thou  art  not  drunk,"  lisped  a 
flat-nosed  youth. 

"  Manifestly  also,  Critias'  porter  is  either  drunk  or  dead," 
cried  Timoleon,  now  proceeding  to  smite  the  door,  before 
which  all  were  standing,  with  all  his  might.  "  Confound 
the  creature {  why  can't  he  hear  that  which  would  wake  the 
dead  in  the  Ceramicus?  " 

Timoleon  kept  on  pounding  the  door.  His  Irritation  at 
this  unlucky  encounter  made  vigorous  action  grateful.  He 
could  have  cursed  aloud  in  his  anger. 

"  T  —  Tim  —  oleon  "  a  voice  cried,  faint  at  first,  but 
gathering  a  certain  accent,  of  pompous  dignity  as  the  speaker 
went  on  —  "  If  —  dear  boy  —  you  would  but  train  your 
own  slaves  as  you  seek  to  govern  those  of  others." 

The  torches  showed  an  elderly  shape,  whose  rich,  em- 
broidered mantle  was  close-drawn.  The  thick  wreath  of 
myrtle  and  hyacinths  hanging  awry  about  the  brows  was 
no  beautifier  of  the  sunken  cheeks,  the  pendant  lips,  and  the 
wine-drugged  eyes.  Yet  a  certain  dignity  of  bearing  pro- 
claimed the  aristocrat.  Even  after  a  long  night  of  banquet- 
ing Critias  could  confront  his  own  door  with  firm  knees  and 
a  jest  upon  his  lips. 

A  shout  of  delighted  laughter  greeted  Critias'  witticism. 
"Bravo!  Critias  —  well  put.  Timoleon  longs  to  govern 
us  all.  Why  not  rule  your  own  kingdom?  Surely  Kro- 
nos— " 

The  door  had  now  been  opened.  In  the  narrow  gap  stood 
a  tall  Nubian,  whose  rudely  modelled  brows  were  knit.  He 
surveyed  the  group  before  him  with  a  contemptuous  expres- 
sion. 

"Well  —  and  are  you  all  here  —  at  last?"  he  cried  out, 
as  he  folded  his  long-sleeved  arms.  "  Have  none  of  you 


212         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

been  lost  on  the  way?  I  seem  to  miss  a  philosopher  or 
two!" 

A  joyous  clapping  of  hands  greeted  this  outburst.  For 
this  had  the  group  waited.  To  hear  what  Critias'  porter 
would  have  to  say,  after  a  night  of  feasting,  was  one  among 
the  very  best  ways  of  ending  a  festival.  While  all  Athens 
talked  of  freedom,  this  Nubian  alone  had  the  courage  to 
practice  that  which  he  did  not  happen  to  own. 

The  slave  had  moved  forward,  in  this,  his  moment  of 
success.  His  rude  features  softened,  as  he  grasped  his  mas- 
ter's arm.  He  encircled  his  master's  form  with  quick,  ex- 
perienced ease.  As  Critias  leaned  against  the  huge  frame, 
he  breathed  a  short  sigh  of  relief;  his  slave's  firm  grasp  he 
found  almost  as  soothing  as  would  be  the  couch  yonder,  in 
the  quiet  thalamos. 

"  Socius,"  he  breathed,  as  he  sank  against  the  strong 
shoulder,  "  bear  me  within  —  I  am  very  weary." 

Socius  smiled  —  with  loving  indulgence.  He  moved  in- 
wards, slowly,  towards  the  narrow  vestibule.  "  Ah-h,  Mas- 
ter," he  cried,  loud  enough  for  all  to  hear,  "  you  are  at 
your  old  tricks  —  I  see  —  ever  longing  to  give  a  good  ex- 
ample to  the  young."  Even  as  he  walked  he  shot  back  a 
humourous  glance  at  the  group  still  gathered  below  the  door 
steps. 

The  younger  men  clapped  loudly,  as  though  at  a  play. 
Their  delighted  laughter  smote  the  air.  A  slave's  tangled, 
hairy  face  shot  through  one  of  the  upper  windows,  looked 
down  upon  the  revellers  with  sleepy,  wondering  eyes;  the 
horses  stirred  in  their  stalls  —  close  to  the  vestibule  door  — 
pounded  the  concrete  of  their  stable's  pavement,  snorting 
as  though  to  greet  the  new  day.  They  woke  the  dogs. 
With  short,  rapturous  barks  these  latter  now  greeted  the 
entering  figures  of  their  master,  his  house-guests,  and  Socius. 

On  the  figure  of  the  last  house-guest,  Socius  quickly  closed 


AN  ATHENIAN  DAWN  213 

the  door.  The  inner  bolt  was  shot  firmly  into  its  place.  A 
dog  barked  harshly,  protestingly,  from  within  the  house. 
One  heard  the  agitated  thumping  of  horses'  hoofs  in  their 
stalls,  the  dogs'  barking  ceased,  and  all  was  still. 

This  moment  of  silence,  apparently,  was  the  one  for  which 
Timoleon  had  waited.  With  quick,  decisive  action,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  take  command  of  the  party. 

Like  babes  staring  at  the  sun,  most  of  those  left  standing 
in  the  open  street,  were  now  blinking  at  the  brightening 
gold  of  the  new  day  in  a  helpless  way.  For  the  streets 
were  full  of  light. 

Timoleon's  brisk,  authoritatives  tones  sounded  like  a  trum- 
pet call. 

"Ariston  —  my  lad  —  straighten  thy  mantle,"  he  cried, 
in  his  clear,  bright  voice ;  "  dost  want  all  Athens  to  know 
you  drank  your  wine  neat?  There,  that  is  better  —  now 
march  —  the  sooner  you  get  your  bath,  the  sounder  you'll 
sleep.  Yes  —  at  the  Stoa  —  this  afternoon,  at  the  usual 
hour  —  and  —  you  two,"  and  Timoleon  turned  to  the  two 
flute-girls  who,  suddenly  roused  by  the  surprise  of  daylight 
had  instinctively,  after  the  fashion  of  women,  begun  to  re- 
arrange their  crumpled  draperies,  "  now  off  with  you.  There 
Phocia  —  there's  your  flute  —  hold  it  tight.  Ah  —  the  lyre 
—  yes,  Erinna  —  grasp  it  thus  —  'twill  be  safest  beneath 
your  arm.  So  —  now  —  farewell  —  and  walk  your  straight- 
est.  As  I  said,"  Timoleon  cried  after  the  two,  now  slowly 
moving  onward,  "  one  wants  no  scandal  in  the  street  of 
Hermes.  Agesilaus  and  Ariston,  wait  —  pray.  I'll  give 
you  each  a  shoulder  —  I  go  your  way  —  or  part  of  it." 

The  magic  of  a  man  with  a  will  or  a  purpose  worked 
its  common  miracle.  One  by  one  the  revellers  melted  away. 
Wisps  of  crocus-coloured  draperies  floated  in  the  faint  dawn- 
breeze,  in  mazy  swirl  about  sandalled  feet.  The  yellow 
streaks  of  light  now  tinting  the  house-fronts  beat  out  glints 


214         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

of  silver  in  Phocia's  bee-embroidered  chiton.  The  two  girls' 
fair  skins,  their  trailing  locks,  rose  garlanded,  the  outlines 
of  their  perfect  shapes  moving  within  the  delicate  transparen- 
cies, grew  fainter  and  fainter.  The  street  was  soon  emptied 
of  all  save  the  growing  glory  of  the  Athenian  day. 


Chapter  XIX 

OVER  A  GARDEN  WALL 

AT  the  turn  of  the  next  street,  Timoleon  found  himself 
alone.  The  slaves  had  taken  their  respective  masters  in 
charge. 

Once  more  Timoleon  lifted  his  eyes  to  trace  the  dawn's 
progress.  The  clear,  bright  skies  showed  a  pink,  flushed 
surface.  Lycabettus'  crown  had  caught  the  first  blaze.  Its 
tall,  cragged  peak  glowed  like  a  star  dropped  from  the 
night's  blue.  Beyond,  the  hills  bloomed,  rosy,  mist-en- 
wrapped. The  streets  were  now  white  with  light.  The 
features  of  the  carved  faces  on  walls  and  pedestals  shone  out, 
those  freshly  carved  clear  and  strong;  those  of  an  ancient 
date,  stained  and  weather-worn. 

Timoleon's  decision  wavered  perceptibly,  as  he  noticed 
these  signs  of  the  breaking  day.  With  characteristic  daring, 
however,  he  determined  to  proceed.  After  all,  a  little  ear- 
lier, or  a  little  later,  what  did  it  matter?  Had  he  not  tried 
every  sort  of  light?  He  made  a  quick,  sudden  plunge  into 
a  side  alley. 

This  narrower  street  seemed  almost  deserted.  Here  high 
garden  walls  were  intersected  by  house-fronts  of  a  mean 
appearance. 

Timoleon  glanced  anxiously  upwards.  Not  a  slit  of  an 
upper  window  but  was  covered  by  his  quick  eye.  Neither 
slave's  or  woman's  face  was  to  be  seen. 

A  garden  wall  now  rose  high  before  him.  The  spirals  of 
tapering  trees  and  groups  of  tall  shrubs  proved  the  garden, 
for  Athens,  a  fairly  spacious  one.  Over  the  top  wall  fell 
a  mass  of  vines,  whose  green  growth  framed  a  door. 

215 


216         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Timoleon  placed  his  foot  on  the  lower  step  of  the  green 
door.  He  let  his  mantle  trail.  He  stood  —  rigid  as  a  dog 
with  its  bird  in  sight.  Certain  sounds  coming  from  within 
the  walled  garden  —  sounds  he  had  been  waiting  long  weeks 
to  hear  —  reached  his  ear.  He  could  scarcely  breathe  for 

joy- 
First  came  a  dog's  sharp,  rapture-laden  bark.  Then  a 
girl's  voice  —  soft  and  low.  Then  a  long  silence. 

Once  more  Timoleon's  breath  came  quickly,  with  gratified 
content.  The  third  voice  —  the  one  he  had  dreaded  might 
again  spoil  his  sport  —  was  unheard.  Could  it  be  possible 
the  girl  within  the  garden  was  really  alone?  If  so  Hermes, 
his  sometimes  kind  god  would,  indeed,  have  rich  reward. 

Even  as  his  vow  escaped  him,  as  though  to  earn  the  prom- 
ised tribute,  the  god  of  luck  sent  the  steps  within,  nearer 
and  ever  nearer. 

Timoleon  felt  his  moment  had  come. 

Suddenly  opening  his  tunic,  Timoleon  tore  from  its  hid- 
ing place  a  withered  garland.  With  a  skilful  toss,  the  chap- 
let  was  flung  across  the  garden  wall. 

A  soft  cry  came  from  within.  The  flurried  rustling  of  a 
woman's  garments,  in  among  the  shrubbery,  caught  Timo- 
leon's ear.  So  still  was  the  morning,  the  now  swift,  hard 
breathing  of  one  startled,  almost  panting  —  this  blessed 
human  sound  came  over  the  garden  wall.  Once  again,  be- 
fore he  spoke,  Timoleon  cautiously  listened.  Save  that  quick 
breathing,  all  was  still. 

"  Myrto  —  is  it  indeed  thou?  " 

Timoleon's  voice  was  excellently  tuned  to  the  music  of 
his  speech.  It  was  low  and  tremulous.  His  eyes  had  deep- 
ened in  colour  —  for  in  this  stake  for  which  he  was  playing, 
there  was  danger.  When  facing  danger,  the  bronze  of 
Timoleon's  eyes  turned  to  blackened  marble. 

The  stillness  assured  Timoleon  the  words  had  been  heard. 


OVER  A  GARDEN  WALL  217 

There  came  a  low,  smothered  gasp,  as  of  wonder  mixed 
with  joy.  A  long  moment  passed.  Then  a  soft  voice  called 
out,  in  affrighted  tones: 

"  Timoleon  —  is  it  indeed  Timoleon  ?  " 

"Ah-h —  dearest  Myrto  —  with  all  my  heart  I  salute 
thee!" 

Timoleon  was  listening  to  the  tones  of  his  voice  —  as  an 
actor  might  when  practising  a  lover's  part.  Being  a*  ex- 
cellent critic,  he  judged  the  note  sufficiently  tender. 

Once  more  there  was  a  perfect  stillness.  The  reedy 
branches,  growing  below  the  garden  wall  did,  indeed,  creak 
softly.  Myrto,  presumably,  had  stirred  within  her  hiding 
place.  A  long  moment  passed  before  her  answer  came. 

"  I  shall  wear  your  chaplet  —  always." 

The  voice  was  faint  —  was  it  from  weakening  courage,  or 
from  a  reticent  desire  to  veil  a  shyness  of  feeling?  Timo- 
leon felt  he  must  fan  the  flickering  flame  —  and  with  all  his 
might. 

"  And  I  —  what  have  I  ?  I  must  go  into  strange,  far- 
away countries,  with  no  warmer  assurance  than  that?  Ah 
—  sweet  Myrto  —  look  into  thy  heart,  and  see  if  there  be 
no  message  —  there  —  for  him  who  longs  to  press  that  dear 
heart  —  for  evermore  —  to  his !  " 

As  he  was  delivered  of  his  impassioned  outcry,  Timoleon 
felt  —  at  last,  and  to  the  full  —  the  excitement  of  the  situ- 
ation. Caught  —  red-handed  —  at  this  low  trick  of  wooing 
Critias'  daughter,  in  this  back-handed  way  —  and  all  his 
chances  of  success  were  gone.  Undiscovered,  and  with 
Myrto's  love  avowed  —  and  his  whole  life  might  possibly 
be  changed  —  his  fortunes  crowned  with  success. 

He  had  to  wait  for  his  answer.  When  it  came,  the  child- 
ish tones  were  laden  with  feeling. 

"  Is  it  indeed  true,  Timoleon  —  this  I  hear  —  that  you 
are  intending  to  leave  us?  "  Along  with  the  cry,  there  came 


218         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

the  sound  of  a  nervous  crumbling  of  leaves.  In  her  agita- 
tion the  girl  was  doubtless  punishing  the  nearer  shrubs 
about  her. 

Timoleon  smiled  his  cynical  smile.  How  quickly  news 
travelled  in  Athens!  He  had  taken  care  to  talk,  casually, 
in  the  Market  Place,  of  a  possible  journey  to  Sparta. 

"Alas!"  the  smooth,  sad  tones  came  pearling  over  the 
wall ;  "  I  fear  I  must.  But  though  I  may  go  —  mighty  love 
goes  with  me.  I  shall  pray  the  gods,  daily,  to  bring  me 
back." 

"  Oh  —  and  I  " —  the  young  voice  answered,  its  tones 
were  now  thrilled  and  strong  with  feeling  — "  I  shall  pray 
—  I  shall  do  naught  but  pray." 

"  May  I  then  hope  to  carry  your  love  with  me  —  as  my 
safeguard,  sweet  one?" 

He  had  put  into  his  tones  all  the  simulated  passion  he 
could  summon.  True  gambler  that  he  was,  he  would  risk 
all  his  fortunes  on  this  last  throw. 

Timoleon's  luck  was  proverbially  poor.  Hermes  appeared 
to  have  suddenly  abandoned  his  cause.  Myrto's  fresh,  pure 
voice  had  begun  to  chant,  melodiously,  tremulously  —  its 
first  love  vow  — 

"  If  Hera  hear  my  prayer  —  may  I  ne'er  wed  — "  when 
steps  were  heard,  and  deep  tones  cried  out,  as  from  a  dis- 
tance: 

"And  what  —  in  Heaven's  name,  child,  does  this  hiding 
mean?  How  came  you  here  —  in  the  garden  —  and 
alone?" 

At  the  sound  of  the  rich  Nubian  voice,  Timoleon  felt  a 
murderous  instinct.  Hateful,  fateful  voice!  A  second 
more,  and  he  would  have  had  that  foolish  child's  promise 
with  all  that  a  pious  maiden's  vow  might  bring  to  pass. 

He  could  have  cried  aloud  in  his  anger.  Instead,  he  must 
stand  as  rigid  as  a  statue.  He  must  stay  his  very  breath. 


OVER  A  GARDEN  WALL  219 

That  Asia's,  Myrto's  nurse,  that  her  slave's  ears  were  as 
long  as  her  knowledge  of  life  was  complete,  all  Athens 
knew.  No  need  of  a  Molossian  hound  in  Critias'  house- 
hold.* 

Timoleon  caught  Myrto's  broken,  embarrassed  laugh. 
The  crackle  of  the  branches  told  him  that  she  had  sprung, 
almost  at  a  bound,  into  the  open  pathway.  Obviously  also, 
the  girl  had  either  released,  or  she  had  trickily  pinched,  her 
dog,  for  he  was  barking  furiously.  Under  cover  of  this 
diversion,  Myrto's  tone  had  grown  more  and  more  reas- 
sured. She  had  regained,  apparently,  sufficiently  self-pos- 
session to  cry  out: 

"  Nonsense  Asia !  It  is  you,  surely,  who  must  have  a 
lover  —  yourself.  Ah  —  ha !  —  you  are  always  so  mightily 
suspicious  of  others.  Where  is  mother?  Let  us  seek  her." 

Asia's  reply  was  lost.  She  and  her  charge  must  be  now 
entering  the  house.  In  the  garden,  as  in  the  street,  all  was 
still. 


As  Timoleon  sauntered  down  the  now  almost  blindingly 
lighted  street,  he  cursed  his  luck  anew.  This  then  —  was 
the  end  of  all  his  long  patience  —  of  his  persistent  spying! 
How  many  weeks  it  had  taken  to  effect  this  longed-for  meet- 
ing! To  find  out  the  time  and  the  moment  when  this  child 
Myrto  might  be  counted  upon  to  come  into  the  garden  — 
had  he  not  been  there  at  the  same  early  hour  —  morning 
after  morning  —  hoping  against  hope  for  the  lucky  chance 
when  the  hateful  Asia  might  be  absent  —  and  Myrto  within 
the  walls  —  alone? 

The  great  chance  had  come  —  at  last ;  and  his  usual  luck 
had  pursued  him  —  the  meeting  had  all  but  come  to  naught. 

*  Such  hounds  were  sometimes  kept  by  jealous  husbands  as 
guardians  of  the  women's  quarters,  in  the  master's  absence. 


220         ON  f  HE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

It  was  nothing  to  Timoleon's  hard  heart  that  he  had 
heard  the  delicate  flutterings  of  that  girl-love.  At  the  pres- 
ent pass  to  which  his  life  and  fortunes  had  come,  love  of  the 
poorer,  purer  sort  was  the  last  gift  he  asked  of  the  gods  — 
unless  —  of  course  —  as  in  Myrto's  case,  he  saw  a  way  to 
work  the  feeling  to  his  own  advantage.  The  pretty  ways 
of  maiden-love  —  shyness,  timidity  and  freshness  —  all  this 
was  lost  on  Timoleon,  as  was  the  glory  of  this  brilliant 
morning. 

In  a  city  like  Athens,  where  noble  women  and  maidens 
were  virtual  prisoners  in  the  gyneconitis,  for  Timoleon  to 
have  seen,  even  once,  and  face-to-face,  as  carefully  guarded  a 
maiden  as  Myrto,  was  nothing  short  of  the  work  of  the 
gods. 


On  another  dawn,  some  weeks  before,  Timoleon  had  been 
preceding  the  corpse  of  a  cousin  to  its  long  rest  in  the  outer 
Ceramicus.  Near  the  Dipylon  gate,  both  the  funeral  and 
a  covered  carriage  had  been  stopped.  A  long  train  of  mules, 
heavily  laden,  had  blocked  the  way. 

Critias  and  his  family  were  entering  the  city.  The  an- 
nual drive,  from  their  Eubaean  estates  to  the  town  house, 
was  nearly  ended. 

The  wail  and  chant  of  the  mourners  —  even  the  funeral 
dirge  —  fell  almost  gratefully  on  the  wearied  senses.  The 
familiar  strains  told  the  elders  they  were  nearing  home,  after 
the  long  night's  rough  drive. 

Myrto  alone  had  leaned  forth  to  look  her  fill  of  the  show. 
The  train  of  relations,  the  hired  mourners,  the  musicians 
heading  the  procession  had  delighted  the  child's  love  of  pomp. 
There  was  ever  a  festive  air  about  an  Athenian  funeral 
that  seemed  to  make  burial  pleasant. 

Myrto  suddenly  encountered  a  full,  strong  gaze.     Two 


OVER  A  GARDEN  WALL  221 

beautiful  brown-gold  eyes  were  fixed  full  upon  her.  By  the 
luckiest  of  winds  that  ever  blew,  the  light  dawn  breeze  had 
lifted  her  own  veil.  In  re-adjusting  its  folds  Myrto  took 
occasion  to  give  the  stranger  a  swift  return  glance.  In  her 
delight  at  the  young  man's  beauty,  and  in  the  excitement 
of  experiencing  a  new  thrill  —  one  that  ran  through  her 
young  veins  like  warm  sunlight  —  Myrto  had  remained 
transfixed.  She  was  experiencing  a  wholly  new  —  a  divine 
sensation  —  one  that  seemed  to  change  her  whole  being. 

Before  her,  as  in  a  mirror,  there  was  the  quickening  fire 
of  two  brown-gold  eyes,  that  looked  wise  and  masterful  for 
loving.  A  music  deeper  and  more  searching  than  that 
breathed  through  festival  pipes,  was  making  every  pulse  beat 
in  tune  with  a  rapture  that  could  only  be  love's  own. 

As  if  she  had  lost  all  power  to  summon  her  maiden's 
modesty,  Myrto  had  found  herself  smiling  back.  For  that 
one  entrancing  instant,  looking  and  smiling  thus  into  the 
other's  eyes,  to  Myrto,  at  least,  it  was  as  if  everything  that 
youth  could  say  to  youth  had  been  felt,  and  spoken,  and 
answered. 

Then  Myrto's  lashes,  in  meek  obedience  to  their  training, 
had  swept  the  burn  of  her  cheek.  She  had  hurriedly  bent 
her  head,  as  she  folded  her  veil  about  her.  The  flute  notes 
had  freshened  upon  the  morning  air.  The  wail  and  chant 
of  the  mourners  once  more  rose  and  fell,  in  rhythmic  itera- 
tion, as  Critias's  coach  had  dashed  city-wards. 

It  had  taken  the  patience  of  weeks  for  Timoleon  to  ac- 
complish this  second  meeting. 

Hermione  and  her  daughter  Myrto  had  gone  to  none  of 
the  autumn  festivals.  Critias  had  had  a  fit  of  economy. 
Such  righteous  impulses  were  usually  left  for  his  women- 
kind  to  work  out.  Timoleon,  therefore,  had  had  no  chance 
of  even  exchanging  a  glance  with  Myrto. 

Now  —  at  last  —  his  patience  had  been  rewarded.     The 


222          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

mornings  he  had  haunted  that  tiresome,  dull  garden  wall 
had  not  been  lost.  Even  though  Myrto's  silly  love-vow 
had  been  cut  in  two,  if  the  interchange  of  a  smile,  and  a 
single  admiring  stare  could  work  the  miracle  of  love  in  a 
child's  heart,  what  might  not  impassioned  utterance  ac- 
complish? Timoleon  felt  he  could  safely  leave  the  love- 
filter  of  his  daring  avowal  to  work  its  results. 

The  shadow  of  a  better  fortune,  as  he  walked  towards  the 
western  end  of  the  Agora,  seemed  to  flit  beside  him.  It 
was  destined  he  should  have  one  more  adventure  before  he 
gained  his  home  door.  As  he  came  upon  the  long  row  of 
gods  and  goddesses,  close  to  the  western  end  of  the  Agora,  he 
heard  a  well-known  voice. 

"  Ah-h,  Timoleon  —  out  —  and  so  early?  'Tis  hours  be- 
fore your  usual  time." 

Glaucus  looked  as  fresh  as  a  girl.  His  blond  curls  were 
crisp  and  shining;  they  fell  over  his  brow  in  a  perfect  circle. 
The  pink  skin,  the  shapely  nose  —  flattened  to  make  a 
straight  line  with  the  smooth  brow,  the  full  lips  and  beauti- 
fully rounded  cheeks,  were  in  striking  contrast  to  Timo- 
leon's  dark,  thought-worked  face. 

Timoleon  noticed  his  friend  wore  a  hat,  and  that  he  car- 
ried a  goad  in  lieu  of  his  usual  long  cane. 

In  answer  to  Timoleon's  quick  survey,  Glaucus  cried  out : 

"  Well  met!     I  was  looking  for  some  one  to  join  me — " 

"  And  where  now  —  gay  Glaucus  ?  "  smiled  Timoleon, 
scenting  an  agreeable  invitation. 

"  Out  through  the  Dipylon  gate,  into  the  country  and 
back.  Will  you  come?  I  long  to  try  those  new  coacH- 
horses." 

Timoleon  considered.  His  next  engagement  must  be  met 
in  an  hour  or  less.  Presently  he  nodded  assent.  It  would 
soothe  him  to  take  the  air.  The  two  passed  quickly  out  of 
the  market  shade,  to  wend  their  way  to  the  stables. 


OVER  A  GARDEN  WALL  223 

Once  seated  in  the  high  coach,  and  the  horses  put  to 
their  speed,  after  a  few  commonplaces,  Timoleon  felt  a  re- 
turn of  his  depression.  The  thought  would  come  —  why, 
of  all  the  men  he  knew,  had  he  alone  been  singled  out  for 
wretchedness?  Why  should  it  not  have  been  Glaucus  who 
was  turned  poor  and  he,  Timoleon,  who  had  continued  his 
old,  pleasant  life,  with  horses,  and  country  houses,  and  a 
generous  giving  of  banquets? 

"The  wine  too  strong  —  after  all,  last  night  —  Timo- 
leon? Yet  no  one  carried  his  cups  as  well  as  you,"  lisped 
Glaucus,  a  touch  of  sympathy  in  his  voice.  Glaucus  was 
not  noted  for  quick  insight. 

"  Oh  —  Bacchus  never  scourges  me,"  almost  bitterly  re- 
plied Timoleon,  noticing  how  near  they  were  to  the  very 
garden  where  Hermes  had  played  him  false. 

"  It  is  Hermes  —  always,  who  has  me  under  his  displeas- 
ure. Can  you  imagine  anything  more  tormenting,"  he 
added,  with  a  sudden,  rare  impulse  of  frankness,  "  than  to 
have  a  beautiful  young  girl  about  to  avow  her  love  to  you 
—  in  broad  daylight,  and  for  her  slave  to  make  a  point  of 
coming,  hours  before  her  time,  from  market  as  though  solely 
to  keep  the  vow  from  being  uttered  ?  " 

Glaucus  compassionately  agreed  few  situations  in  life 
were  more  tantalizing.  Then,  as  he  touched  his  steeds  with 
his  goad,  he  wondered  who,  in  the  name  of  all  the  gods, 
Timoleon  could  have  found  to  listen  to  his  love-vows  —  in 
Athens,  of  all  places,  where  every  one  knew  his  history. 
Some  men  were  unaccountably  successful  in  love!  Timo- 
leon, for  example,  was  always  having  adventures  —  or,  at 
least,  was  always  recounting  them.  What  could  women  see 
in  him? 

As  if  to  inspect  his  friend  anew  —  as  though  he  had 
never  properly  seen  him  before  —  Glaucus  turned.  He  gave 
all  the  seconds  he  could  safely  steal  from  his  horses,  to 


224          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

looking  over  Timoleon's  physical  equipment.     Well  —  yes 

—  one  must  acknowledge  the  features  were  well-cut  —  the 
nose  a  little  too  thin  perhaps  at  the  base,  and  the  lips  needed 
more  colour  and  fulness.     Any  one  could  see,  Timoleon  was 
of  noble  blood,  and  a  gentleman.     He  was  careful  to  keep 
up  his  training,  as  a  gentleman  should  —  and  poor  as  he  was 

—  and  sponge  as  every  one  knew  him  to  be,  there  was  a 
certain  pride  and  cleverness  about  him  that  made  his  com- 
pany desirable.     As  a  result  of  this  summing-up,  Glaucus 
saw  fit  to  change  his  mind  on  an  important  decision. 

"  By  the  way,  Timoleon  —  I  give  a  banquet  to  Ion  —  in 
a  night  or  two  —  will  you  come  ?  " 

Timoleon  forced  a  smile. 

"  Gladly  —  I  hear  he  returns  to-morrow  —  his  mission 
was  successful  —  I  hear." 

"  Yes  —  Now  everything  Ion  does,  the  gods  crown  —  as 
Olympia  crowned  him.  Once  a  man  has  luck  — " 

"  And  money,"  quickly  interrupted  Timoleon,  the  jarring 
note  of  bitterness  cutting  the  clear  air  — "  Where  would 
Ion  be  now,  were  it  not  for  his  father's  trading  ships  ?  " 

All  the  hate  of  the  penniless  aristocat  was  in  the  bitter 
tone. 

Glaucus  laughed  good  humouredly.  "  Well  —  dear  man, 
Plutos  is  a  good  friend  —  but  Ion  is  also  a  charming  man 

—  and  our  gods  love  beauty  and  a  sweet  nature  —  and  men 
are  only  mortals  —  For  my  part,  I  always  loved  Ion." 

Timoleon  was  about  to  make  a  crushing  retort,  if  only 
to  remind  Glaucus  of  a  time  when  he  would  scarce  be  seen 
with  the  Piraean  in  the  Poikile,  but  the  off  leader  just  then 
stood  upright,  frightened  at  a  drove  of  sheep  a  shepherd  was 
driving  across  the  road,  and  Glaucus  had  need  of  all  his 
mind  and  skill  to  avert  disaster.  When  the  animal  was 
quieted  to  the  point  of  walking  on  four  legs,  Glaucus  asked 


OVER  A  GARDEN  WALL  225 

Timoleon  the  last  war  news.  In  talking  war  Timoleon 
forgot  Ion.  Syracuse  and  her  enemies  were  of  larger  prom- 
ise for  one  with  empty  pockets,  than  sowing  seeds  of  dissen- 
sion between  two  rich  men. 


Chapter  XX 

MYRTO'S  AWAKENING 

Two  days  later,  in  the  gynaeconitis  of  Critias'  house,  Myrto, 
as  she  stood  in  the  open  court,  heard  the  voices  of  her  dull 
life  calling  to  her.  The  whir  of  the  loom  in  the  spinning- 
room  called  loudest.  Whatever  happened,  to  attempt  to 
spin  on  this  morning  of  mornings  she  felt  she  could  not. 
To  sit  at  the  loom,  or  to  weigh  out  the  wools  or  flax  for  the 
slaves  would  be,  she  felt,  intolerable.  At  least  she  might 
wait  until  her  mother  appeared. 

Myrto  slipped  between  the  pillars  of  the  sun-flooded  court. 

Below  the  square  opening,  the  very  dogs  were  asleep. 
Under  the  shade  of  the  columns  they  lay,  curled  and  coiled, 
as  if  anxious  to  kill  a  day  that  offered  nothing  better  than 
a  great  deal  of  sun  and  a  warmth  in  the  air  that  made 
sleep  better  than  keeping  awake,  since  there  was  no  outlet 
for  the  dance  in  the  pulse  —  save  a  slow  wagging  of  the 
tail  —  until  Serapion,  their  true  boy  comrade  should  appear. 

Myrto's  own  pulses  were  throbbing  too  noisily  for  quick, 
clear  thought.  The  terrifying  knowledge  locked  within  her 
childish  soul  seemed  a  burden  greater  than  she  could  carry. 

She  was  still  dazed  —  wrapt  —  out  of  her  little  world. 
Timoleon's  withered  love-token  —  the  bit  of  garland  she 
wore  in  her  bosom  —  was  surely  as  binding  as  a  betrothal! 
She  pressed  the  leaves  the  closer,  as  she  smiled.  She  felt 
their  prick  with  secret  rapture  —  her  blushes,  she  knew,  were 
dyeing  her  cheeks.  The  instant  after,  her  heart-beats  all  but 
died  within  her  shaking  frame.  Were  her  mother  —  above 
all,  were  her  father,  to  learn  of  that  morning's  adventure, 

226 


MYRTO'S  AWAKENING  227 

the  punishment  and  disgrace  that  would  befall  her  were  be- 
yond imagining. 

The  spectre  of  fear  vanished  before  the  divine  sensations 
that  next  swept  her  young  soul. 

She  was  loved!  She  was  loved!  And  by  one  of  the 
handsomest,  cleverest,  and  most  brilliant  of  Athenian  no- 
bles. The  very  knowledge  of  such  a  wondrous  fact  made 
Myrto's  young  soul  thrill  with  rapture. 

Then,  as  the  thought  rose  up,  dark-visaged,  sinister  as 
one  of  the  faces  of  the  Fates  —  of  the  inexorable  laws  gov- 
erning her  life,  Myrto's  young  soul  was  rocked  with  her 
first  sense  of  real  anguish.  Unless  the  gods  themselves 
should  interfere  —  how  would  her  father  ever  consent  to 
accept  Timoleon  as  her  suitor?  His  father  was  in  exile  — 
the  estates  were  confiscated  —  Timoleon  himself  was  living 
on  next  to  nothing !  —  child  as  she  was,  Myrto  knew  such  a 
man,  thus  circumstanced,  had  no  more  chance  of  being  an 
acceptable  suitor  than  if  he  had  been  a  pig-like  Arcadian. 
Yet  Hermione  —  yet  possibly  her  dear  mother  might  be 
won  over.  She,  surely,  had  been  unhappy  enough  in  her 
own  marriage !  Who  knew  —  if  praying  hard  to  Hestia 
might  not  lead  to  a  softening  of  that  dear,  fond  mother's 
heart  ? 

Rocked  thus  by  the  alterations  of  hope,  sorrow,  rapture, 
and  despair,  Myrto  sat  in  the  sun,  at  the  base  of  a  column. 
Idly,  as  from  sheer  habit,  she  went  on  stroking  the  silken 
coat  of  her  pet  Maltese  —  as  her  thoughts  ran  the  wild 
gamut  of  this  new  love-rhapsody. 

Presently  Myrto's  fingers  stiffened.  Her  breath  seemed 
to  harden  on  her  lips.  Her  heart's  beating  came  to  a  full 
stop. 

She  had  heard  her  own  name  spoken  —  by  her  father, 
and  not  once,  but  twice! 

The  door  of  the  thalamos  was  ajar.    Through  it  and  the 


228         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

thick  curtain,  hanging  before  the  door,  came  the  sound  of 
her  parents'  voices.  They  were  disputing.  There  was  noth- 
ing unusual  in  the  latter  fact;  they  rarely,  indeed,  agreed 
about  anything  —  although  Hermione,  being  a  great  lady, 
and  a  model  of  behaviour,  never  openly  opposed  her  husband, 
except  when  they  were  alone,  behind  their  chamber  curtain. 
There  was,  therefore,  nothing  unusual  in  the  sound  of  her 
parents'  voices,  raised  in  the  heat  of  their  mutual  anger, 
to  make  her  heart  stop  beating. 

"  Have  you  told  Myrto?"  That  was  the  question  that 
had  transfixed  the  girl  into  the  immobility  of  a  breathless 
statute. 

For  her  father  to  mention  her  at  all  was  sufficiently 
terrifying.  Being  a  girl,  he,  of  course,  always  either  point- 
edly ignored  her  existence,  or  failed  to  remember,  as  a  rule, 
her  presence. 

Her  mother's  answer  Myrto  could  not  hear.  The  tapes- 
try was  so  aggravatingly  thick! 

Myrto  now  glanced  hurriedly,  excitedly  about.  No  slave 
shape  was  to  be  seen.  Thereupon,  deliberately,  Myrto 
planted  her  ear  beside  the  curtain,  as  close  as  she  dared. 
She  had  caught  Asia's,  her  slave's,  trick. 

"Have  you  told  Myrto?"  she  now  heard  her  father 
plainly  ask. 

"  No  —  not  yet,"  her  mother's  voice  sounded  less  clear  ; 
it  seemed  fainter  because  of  a  certain  sadness  with  which 
it  was  laden. 

"  Do  so  then  to-day  —  he  will  be  here  shortly.  I  in- 
tend to  give  him  a  banquet." 

Standing  now  between  the  tapestry  and  the  door  —  Myrto 
could  catch  the  sound,  but  not  the  words,  of  her  mother's 
long  sentences.  Presently,  however,  some  words  rang  out 
clear  and  strong. 

"  I  have  long  since  known  you  have  lost  all  pride.     If 


MYRTO'S  AWAKENING  229 

you  can  but  pass  all  your  days  abroad  —  at  the  Assembly, 
or  the  Gymnasia,  or  with  Alcibiades  or  Polytion,  and  your 
nights  at  the  Symposia  —  if  you  can  but  have  at  your  own 
banquets  the  wine  to  run  like  rivers  —  and  you  can  tell 
your  guests  the  singing-girls  are  all  from  Corinth  —  you 
care  not  how  quickly  my  dower  goes  —  or  whether  your 
sons  marry  maidens  like  Nausicaa —  or  whom  Myrto  is  to 
marry." 

"  By  the  great  gods !  Madam,"  here  angrily  interrupted 
Critias  —  Myrto  could  hear  her  father  springing  upright  — 
for  the  bed-cords  creaked  beneath. him — "Am  I  alive  and 
capable  of  walking  about  —  that  I  hear  such  language  — 
and  from  a  woman  ?  How  often  am  I  to  be  reminded  that 
it  is  your  dowry,  your  money,  your  property  that  is  keeping 
the  household  going?  Zeus!  he  who  marries  an  heiress  is 
indeed  under  the  curse  of  the  gods!  Is  there  no  teaching 
you  your  place  ? "  To  the  storm  of  that  outburst,  there 
succeeded  a  silence.  Myrto  knew  her  mother  was  strug- 
gling to  contain  herself.  Her  voice  rose  up  sweet  once 
more.  Its  ring  of  habitual  submission  sounded  clear  and 
distinct. 

"  I  have  long  known  I  am  naught  —  We  Athenian  women 
now  have  fallen  thus  —  to  be  as  little  regarded  as  slaves  — 
sometimes  as  easily  put  away — " 

"  Come  —  come  —  none  of  that.  I  was  angered  —  no 
man  will  stand  a  woman  ruling  the  house  —  even  if  she 
have  the  money.  I  assure  you  I  have  no  desire  to  persist 
in  carrying  out  this  plan,  against  your  wish.  I  desire  it  — 
it  will  be  an  excellent  match  —  as  you  will  see.  When  I 
saw  him  the  other  day,  I  was  struck  with  his  beauty." 

"Is  he  then  so  fair?"  her  mother  asked,  in  a  mollified 
voice.  Hermione's  anger  melted  out  of  her  whenever  her 
husband  assumed  a  courteous  tone.  Myrto  felt  her  own 
breath  hardening  on  her  lips  —  for  if  her  mother  yielded, 


230          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

whatever  was  to  come  to  her  was  certain  to  be  a  doom  as 
fixed  as  fate. 

"  Yes  —  his  form  is  perfect.  I  was  delighted.  He  is 
as  strong  as  he  is  fair.  And  since  his  Olympian  victory, 
every  door  is  open  to  him.  Hem ! —  tell  the  child  to-day  — 
and  that  I  shall  be  pleased.  Hem! — the  small  farm  in 
Elis  shall  be  hers."  There  was  a  slight  pause.  "  By  the 
way,  I  must  go  to  the  slave-market.  Nirias  says  the  mines 
will  yield  largely  this  year.  He  needs  some  strong  young 
slaves." 

Her  mother  said  nothing.  Yet  Hermione  commonly  flew 
into  a  passion  at  the  mere  mention  of  the  purchase  of  more 
slaves. 

The  talk  came  to  an  end  after  that.  Myrto  could  hear 
her  mother  walking  about.  She  had  opened  the  great  chest 

—  she  was  taking  out  the  plate  for  the  day's  use.     Her 
father    had    turned    to    finish    his    sleep.     The    bed-girths 
groaned    anew    beneath   him,    as   he    changed    his    posture. 
Myrto  dropped  the  curtain. 

For  a  long  time  she  had  strength  only  to  lean  against 
the  wall.  She  steadied  herself  with  her  outstretched  palms, 
as  she  flattened  them  against  the  cold  stucco.  She  was  too 
shaken  by  the  tremor  of  her  mingled  fear,  curiosity,  and 
amazement  to  care  now  whether  she  was  caught  or  not. 

What  could  it  all  mean?  That  she  was  to  be  married? 
Could  that  be  the  great,  the  real  solution  to  this  stupendous 
riddle  of  conversation?  If  it  all  meant  marriage  —  then, 
to  whom?  Whom  could  her  father  possibly  have  in  mind? 

As  in  a  dream,  every  man  she  had  ever  heard  mentioned, 
by  either  her  parents  or  her  relations,  in  connection  with 
her  marriage,  was  passed  in  view.  It  could  not  be  Ccpis 

—  he  was  far  too  old,  nearly  fifty.     Yet  he  was  rich;  and 
her  father,  as  she  knew,  would  never  be  "  pleased  "  with 
any  son-in-law  who  was   not  wealthy.     Then    there    was 


MYRTO'S  AWAKENING  231 

Cephalus,  the  richest  of  all  —  the  friend  of  Nirias,  he  who 
had  three  houses:  had  he  had  an  Olympian  victory? 

Could  it  —  Ah !  rapturous  thought !  —  could  it  be  Timo- 
leon?  Had  Hera  so  quickly  granted  her  prayer?  Had 
Timoleon's  father  been  miraculously  pardoned,  out  of  exile 
—  and  above  all  —  had  he  come  into  his  estates  once  more  ? 
Was  it  because  of  this  Timoleon  was  going  away?  Alas! 
hope  had  fled.  Never  had  a  single  slave  brought  news  from 
the  Agora  of  Timoleon's  winning  anything. 

Myrto  stumbled,  she  scarce  knew  how,  to  the  door  of  her 
room.  For  once  its  dulled  light  was  welcome.  She  even 
drew  the  hanging  before  the  door  as  close  as  possible.  Her 
heated  temples  must  be  cooled.  Her  eyes  were  smarting 
with  pain. 

As  she  groped  about  in  search  of  a  ewer,  the  hanging  was 
swept  aside.  Asia's  large  outlines  filled  the  narrow  space. 

"  Come  —  come  —  up  with  you,  honey ! —  we  are  all  of 
us  late  this  morning."  Her  voice,  soft  as  it  was,  was  like 
a  whip ;  it  stung  Myrto's  quivering  soul  into  freshened  sense 
of  its  pain. 

With  a  cry,  Myrto  ran  forward  to  clasp  her  young  arms 
about  her  slave's  neck.  Brazier  and  ewer  came  to  a  quick 
rest,  on  the  plastered  floor ;  for  lighted  coals  and  water  were 
not  safe  things  to  handle  when  Mryto  was  in  one  of  her 
impassioned  fits  for  caressing. 

"Tell  me,  Asia  —  has  mother  told  you?"  Myrto  whis- 
pered, as  she  clung  to  her  slave's  neck.  "  Do  you  know 
what  is  to  happen  to  me  ?  Is  it  Timoleon  —  dear  Asia  — 
is  it?" 

Asia  laid  Myrto's  beautiful  young  head  on  her  broad 
bosom.  She  patted  the  trembling  shoulders  with  her  strong 
hands.  As  she  soothed  and  petted  the  child,  her  own  rich 
voice  was  not  free  from  a  quiver  of  feeling.  Whatever  she 
knew  or  did  not  know  was  not  written  upon  her  firmly- 


232         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

moulded,  Nubian  features.  She  had  not  carried  the  secret 
counsels  of  one  of  Athens'  most  distinguished  families  for 
near  upon  half  a  century  to  let  a  child  read  her  mind. 
"  There !  There !  honey  —  don't  shake  so,  child.  There's 
no  evil  stroke  of  fate  coming  to  you  —  darling."  And  she 
began,  with  her  usual  order,  to  lay  out  the  garments  of  the 
day  —  one  by  one. 

"Ah  —  but  —  if  I  am  made  to  marry  any  one  but  Timo- 
leon  —  the  worst  of  evils  will  befall,"  cried  Myrto,  giving 
a  despairing  twitch  to  her  golden  locks,  now  freed  for  Asia's 
skilled  combing. 

Asia  shot  a  quick,  investigating  glance  at  the  face  between 
its  long  falls  of  gold.  What  ailed  the  child?  Could  any- 
thing have  happened,  in  the  garden  —  while  she  was  un- 
watched?  As  Asia  plied  her  comb,  she  thought  it  well  to 
sound  the  waters.  Myrto's  thoughts  were  no  deeper  than  a 
brook.  Any  one  could  fish  therein. 

"  Tush  —  tush  —  child  —  you  are  always  babbling  of 
Timoleon.  He  is  no  match  for  you  —  as  I've  often  told 
you.  Poor  —  a  spy  —  as  every  one  says  —  " 

"  Every  one  lies,  then !  He  is  truth  —  and  honour  — 
and  all  that  is  noble  —  I  tell  you !  "  Myrto's  passionate 
denial  made  Asia's  dark  brows  lift. 

"  Ah-h  —  and  how  came  you  to  know  so  well  a  gentle- 
man's character  ?  What  can  you  know  of  men  —  my  honey  ? 
Those  who  know,  tell  strange  tales  of  your  Timoleon." 

"  Those  who  hate  him  do,"  hotly  answered  Myrto,  push- 
ing Asia  from  her. 

"  I  bear  him  no  hate  —  but  I  know  him  —  and  well." 
Asia's  face  darkened  as  she  thought  of  all  the  rumours 
about,  in  the  city,  concerning  Timoleon's  latest  love  in- 
trigue. A  sudden,  passionate  heat  half  blinded  the  woman 
at  the  thought  of  such  a  man  owning  her  beloved  Myrto. 
In  the  violence  of  her  indignation  she  actually  shook  the 


MYRTO'S  AWAKENING  233 

child.  "  What,  pray,  do  you  know  of  men  —  you  —  buried 
here  in  your  prison,  with  your  amulets  and  your  dolls, 
your  dogs  and  your  child's  games  —  and  with  your  precious 
brother?  Do  such  things  teach  you  to  know  the  base  from 
the  noble,  the  mean  man  from  him  who  is  wise  and  generous  ? 
It  is  in  the  market  place  one  learns  to  know  men,  I  tell 
you." 

"  Let  me  go  " —  Myrto  half  shrieked,  wrenching  herself 
free.  In  her  turn  her  anger  stifled  her.  "  You  are  ridicu- 
lous! You  know  well  I  have  ceased  —  and  for  years  —  to 
play  with  dolls  —  and  it  is  you  who  have  covered  yourself 
all  over  with  amulets,  and  —  as  for  a  prison  —  one  can  learn 
a  good  deal  —  even  here  — " 

Asia's  face  brightened.  "  Hoity-Toity!  We're  in  a  bad 
temper  this  morning.  Some  one  has  been  hearing  that  which 
they  should  not.  Let  me  see  —  I'll  take  a  look  at  the 
thalamos  door  " —  Asia  pushed  her  head  beyond  the  cham- 
ber doorway.  When  she  turned  and  stood  upright,  her 
lips  were  indulgently  curved.  She  proceeded,  with  her  usual 
calm,  to  give  her  skilful  touch  to  the  draperies  of  Myrto's 
chiton,  as  though  the  disgrace  of  listening  at  a  parent's  door 
was  a  most  forgiveable  offence.  Her  sweet  Nubian  laughter 
filled  the  dark  room.  "  Well  —  well  —  listeners  never  hear 
any  good  of  themselves.  And  if  Master  has  been  talking, 
you  need  consoling,  honey,  and  no  roughing  of  the  tongue 
from  me." 

"  Dear  Asia  —  tell  me  —  and  do  they  mean,  really,  to 
marry  me?"  Myrto's  soft,  pleading  eyes,  and  the  persua- 
sion of  her  clinging  arms  about  Asia's  neck  would  have 
moved  a  less  seasoned  tongue  to  indiscretion. 

"  There!  Don't  shake  so,  honey.  There's  no  evil  stroke 
of  fate  coming  to  you  —  that  much  I  can  say.  He's  rich 
and  beautiful  —  this  other  —  and  famous  —  the  gods  have 
been  good  —  but  what  silly  words  am  I  babbling?  By  the 


234          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

way,  I  was  to  tell  you  my  lady  says  that  you  need  not  be 
at  the  loom  this  morning.  You  can  play  till  noon.  She 
will  see  you  in  the  pastas.  How  shall  I  ever  get  you  dressed, 
if  you  tremble  so?  " 

That  was  all  Myrto  could  wrench  from  the  lips  of  the 
best  and  most  loving  friend,  except  her  mother,  she  had  in 
the  world.  During  the  long  dressing  hour,  while  she  was 
being  bathed  and  perfumed,  her  hair  dressed,  the  richer 
chiton  for  the  day  shaken  out  and  draped,  Myrto  pled,  she 
cajoled,  she  lavished  tears  and  kisses  on  her  dear  slave's 
cheeks  and  neck,  but  Asia  would  tell  her  nothing. 

Then  Myrto  had  a  change  of  mood.  Her  naturally  gay, 
still  childish  nature  took  a  swift,  upward  flight.  After  all, 
whatever  this  great  change  was,  it  would  be  at  least  a 
change,  she  said  to  herself.  The  same  dull,  dreary  waste  of 
days,  for  a  time,  would  be  diversified  by  scenes  and  emotions 
that  would  surely  be  soul-stirring.  The  child  in  her  could 
dance,  thus,  through  the  arcades  of  fancy. 

Before  she  was  fully  dressed,  she  had  already  seen  dis- 
tinctly before  her  one  perfect  —  one  delicious  moment. 
What  a  triumph  to  drag  Serapion  behind  a  column,  before 
the  noon  meal,  and  there,  in  the  court's  full  sunlight,  to 
watch  his  face,  when  she  told  him  she  was  going  to  be  mar- 
ried! By  that  time,  she  would  surely  know  to  whom.. 


Chapter  XXI 

HERMIONE  AND  MYRTO 

THE  last  loop  in  the  long  garlands  had  been  taken.  The 
banqueting  hall  was  now  ready  for  the  evening's  feast. 
Breaking  though  she  felt  her  heart  to  be,  Hermione  had  not 
slighted  her  task. 

The  grinning  masks  that  served  to  support  the  garlands 
leered,  at  correct  intervals,  through  a  thick  frame  of  clus- 
tering roses,  tulips,  and  hyacinths.  Hermione's  trained  eyes 
swept  the  floral  frieze;  a  sculptor  might  have  taken  the  rope 
of  flowers  and  their  grotesque  supports  as  a  model  for  the 
capital  of  a  column. 

"  Tighten  that  last  loop  —  give  it  a  firmer  twist  —  that 
will  suffice.  And  now  you  may  go  to  your  quarters." 

With  what  patience  she  could  summon,  Hermione  watched 
the  last  long-sleeved  figure  and  bared  heel  pass  beyond  the 
doors  opening.  Then,  with  a  sudden  passionate  movement, 
she  swept  her  hands  to  her  face.  The  long  held-in  sobs  shook 
her  frame. 

This  instant  of  solitude  in  this  busy,  feast-giving,  Andron 

—  this  one  still  moment  brought  a  soothing,  physical   re- 
lief to  Hermione's  tortured  heart.     She  let  the  sobs  shake 
her  frame.     Neither  fear  of  her  husband,  nor  fear  of  the 
slaves'  eyes,  nor  of  Myrto's  distressed  wonder  were  to  be 
dreaded.     She  could  weep,  and  weeping,  feel  somewhat  eased 
of  her  anguish. 

On  the  figure  of  the  weeping  mistress  the  masques  looked 

—  and  looking,  grinned  on.     This  silent,  decked  chamber, 
with  its  perfumed   garlands  and   its  rose-hued   walls,   that 

235 


236         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

seemed  waiting  for  the  entrance  of  crowned  happiness,  of 
a  laughing  train  of  garlanded  youths  and  gay  nymphs  — 
was  filled  instead  with  a  bowed  figure  and  with  the  sounds 
of  stifled  sobbing. 

Hermione  quickly  mastered  her  emotion.  Myrto,  she  re- 
minded herself,  with  a  sudden  start,  must  already  be  await- 
ing her  —  in  the  pastas. 

She  passed  quickly  from  the  banqueting-room  into  the 
peristyle. 

The  whole  court  was  flooded  with  sunlight.  Its  airy 
coolness,  its  beauty,  and  its  orderliness  were  a  delight  to  the 
senses.  The  third  most  beautiful  peristyle,  in  a  private 
house,  in  all  Athens,  the  houses  of  the  wealthy  Polytion  and 
of  Alcibiades  alone  surpassed  this  andron.  Had  there  been 
more  money  in  the  Euboean  farm,  and  more  slaves  to  pay 
the  artists'  bill,  Critias  would  assuredly  have  striven  to  have 
surpassed  his  rivals. 

Hermione,  at  first,  had  been  angered  at  this  loss  of  slaves 
that  had  gone  for  a  tinting  of  walls  and  of  Doric  columns. 
In  time  she  came,  however,  to  rejoice  in  the  beauty  of  the 
court.  Her  "  Athenian  prison,"  as  she  called  the  town  house, 
was  made,  by  its  beauty,  a  little  more  endurable.  When 
Critias  was  abroad,  she,  at  least,  could  revel  in  its  coolness 
and  beauty. 

The  prick  of  the  air  now  touched  Hermione's  open  throat 
and  bared  neck  and  arms.  Her  whole  frame  was  stung  into 
freshened  activity.  Though  the  tears  were  still  in  her  eyes, 
she  smiled  involuntarily,  as  the  winds  swirled  downwards 
through  the  open  square,  and  her  draperies  wound  about 
her  limbs,  tightening  like  a  coil.  The  thin  house-chiton 
revealed  the  true  Juno  model  —  lines  full  and  chaste,  yet 
delicately  voluptuous. 

With  a  sudden,  passionate  movement,   Hermione  raised 


HERMIONE  AND  MYRTO  237 

her  arms.  The  true,  preferred  god  of  her  ancestral  house  — 
her  beloved  Apollo  —  stood  before  her. 

She  lifted  her  soul  in  prayer.  She  besought  the  god  to 
give  her  wisdom,  to  counsel  her  in  this  dark  hour.  She 
omitted  none  of  his  attributes,  ending  with  the  usual  form- 
ula: "Whoever  thou  art  or  mayst  be" — that  she  might 
win  his  special  regard.  He  might  show  her  the  way  out 
of  her  trouble  —  might  whisper  to  her  how  to  delay  Myrto's 
marriage  —  how  to  keep  the  child  near  her  —  for  a  few 
months  longer,  at  the  very  least. 

The  light  from  his  jewelled  eyes  surely  sparkled  with 
living  flame! 

Hermione,  tall  as  she  was,  could  not  quite  reach  her 
adored  deity's  neck.  In  a  rapture  of  pious  ecstacy  she  flung 
her  arms  about  the  amber-hued  pedestal.  All  her  trouble 
then  seemed  taken  from  her.  She  felt  certain  a  miracle 
would  come  to  pass. 

Hermione's  pious  mood  quickly  changed  —  for  she  had 
opened  the  court  door  into  the  gynaeconitis. 

As  never  before,  it  struck  her  how  small  and  mean  was 
this  tiny  women's  court!  How  stunted  the  columns  of  the 
rude  peristyle!  The  very  bases  of  the  columns  were  stained, 
defaced. 

From  the  open  kitchen  came  the  smell  of  cooking.  The 
noise  of  loud,  coarse  talk,  and  rude  laughter  rose  above 
the  clashing  of  dishes  and  the  rattle  of  the  looms,  now  in 
full  activity  in  the  spinning-rooms.  Smells,  clattering 
tongues,  and  the  slaves'  laughter,  rolled  out  like  a  nauseous, 
deafening  flood. 

Hermione,  in  her  quick  anger  and  passionate  hate  of  it 
all  forgot  her  prayer  for  wisdom.  She  remembered,  through 
the  mists  of  her  wrath,  that,  small  and  mean  as  was  this 
court,  she  was  at  least  mistress  within  its  narrow  confines. 


238          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Hermione  once  more  lifted  her  hands.  This  time  it 
was  to  clap  them  —  and  loud.  A  dozen  slaves'  heads  filled 
the  door  openings.  The  famous  cook  —  hired  for  the  day  to 
prepare  the  evening's  banquet  —  stood,  ladle  in  hand,  gap- 
ing-mouthed. 

Hermione,  in  the  middle  of  her  mean  court,  looked  as 
imperious  as  Athena  herself,  and  as  threatening  as  any  one 
of  the  Dark  Sisters.  Her  words  cut  like  a  sword-thrust. 

"  Cook  —  the  court  has  the  smell  of  a  charnel-house. 
Cooks  who  come  with  a  reputation  ahead  of  them  should 
work  to  improve  them,  or  they  may  find  themselves  without 
the  article." 

The  cook  gave  Hermione  a  dazed  glare,  all  but  dropped 
his  ladle,  recovered  it,  slunk  behind  the  faded  rag  that  did 
duty  for  a  hanging,  drew  it,  and  closed  the  creaking  door. 
Behind  the  door,  the  cook's  helpers  were  then  given  a  lesson 
in  profanity,  and  an  arraignment  of  the  sex  to  whom  he 
owed  his  existence,  that  proved  Euripides  might  have  taken 
his  famous  invectives  against  women  hot  from  the  lips  of  a 
cook  in  a  rage.  Hermione's  voice  was  heard  still  lifted 
high  in  command. 

"  Megara  —  all  of  you,  out  there,  in  the  spinning-room 
—  follow  cook's  example  —  shut  both  mouth  and  doors. 
Cease  trying  to  rival  the  noise  of  a  copper-smith's  shop." 

A  frightened  group  of  slaves'  faces,  clustering  about  the 
spinning-room,  suddenly  disappeared.  More  creaking  an- 
nounced that  another  reluctant  door  had  been  closed.  The 
court  was  suddenly  still,  save  for  the  ring  of  childish  laugh- 
ter. 

As  the  gay  babble  swept  Hermione's  ears,  the  beautiful 
face  softened.  Every  feature  was  harmonized.  The  Juno- 
like  mingled  dignity  and  loveliness  that  once  Phidias  had 
caught,  with  his  quick  eyes  of  discerning  genius,  and,  years 
ago,  had  transfixed  into  marble,  this  sudden  glow  of  worn- 


HERMIONE  AND  MYRTO  339 

anly  emotion  made  Hermione  as  glorious  as  was  now  her 
living  portrait,  the  famous  masterpiece. 

The  mounting  throb  of  tenderness  reminded  Hermione 
her  eyes  and  cheeks  must  be  wearing  the  tell-tale  signs  of 
her  late  emotion.  She  passed  unnnoticed  into  her  chamber. 
Hermione  looked  quickly  about  her  dark  room.  By  instinct 
rather  than  sight,  she  grasped  her  brushes.  Her  mirror 
was  held  with  a  firm  hand,  and  the  pigments  plied  with  skill. 


The  pastas  —  the  family  sitting-room  —  was  almost  as 
bright  as  was  the  small  court.  The  noon  shadows  on  the 
rude  columns  without  were  blue.  This  inner,  enclosed 
room,  with  its  bright  hangings,  its  graceful  chairs,  its  inlaid 
klinai,  with  its  mound  of  embroidered  pillows,  its  altar  to 
Hestia,  and  its  tall  reed-like  candelabra?,  was  at  its  very 
best  and  cosiest  moment.  The  noon  radiance  swept  through 
columns  the  bright  Athenian  light.  The  room  was  suffused 
with  colour  and  warmth. 

When  Myrto  had  entered  the  room,  to  await  her  mother, 
its  gay  aspect  had  re-acted  on  her  sensitive  Greek  nature. 

"  Oh  —  Asia  " —  she  cried,  in  hot,  impatient  accents, — 
"how  are  we  to  pass  the  time  till  mother  comes?"  It 
seemed  to  her  childish  mind  as  if  anything  were  better  than 
inaction.  If  the  worst  were  to  befall  her  —  then  let  it  — 
but  let  the  doom  come  quickly.  Meanwhile  —  with  all  this 
sun  and  brightness  about,  one  could  not  sit  with  folded 
hands,  awaiting  grim  fate. 

Even  as  she  had  asked  her  question,  Myrto  walked  quickly 
towards  a  large-backed,  ivory  chair.  Across  its  seat  lay  a 
young  lion's  skin.  This  covering  Myrto  exchanged  for  a 
pillow,  lying  on  the  nearest  couch.  Having  placed  her 
cushion,  she  proceeded  to  sit  down  upon  it,  to  test  its  sink- 


240         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

ing  properties.  As  she  sank  into  its  depths,  she  breathed  a 
gratified  sigh.  Then  she  began  to  spread  out  her  draperies, 
with  a  careful  elaboration.  To  sit  on  high  chairs,  with  one's 
chiton  flowing  about  one,  and  with  one's  foot  on  a  stool, 
made  Myrto  feel  quite  mature  and  fully  grown. 

"  Softly  —  child  —  we  who  are  of  age  to  sit  in  high  chairs 
and  of  the  rank  to  use  footstools,  sit  softly,  remembering 
that  carved  woods  and  ivories  are  precious  things." 

"  Asia  " —  said  Myrto,  her  large  eyes  were  fixed  on  her 
slave's  face,  with  a  quick  affectation  of  great  gravity,  and 
she  leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  her  small  hands  brought 
together  at  the  finger  tips.  She  had  seen  her  father  sit 
thus,  in  his  more  condescending,  severe  moments  — "  if  I 
must  needs  speak  my  real  mind,  it  is  to  tell  you  you  are  a 
fool." 

Then  both  laughed  —  as  at  an  excellent  bit  of  comedy. 
Myrto  had  caught  her  father's  very  accent  and  gesture,  when 
he  was  playing  the  part  of  mentor  to  his  quaking  house- 
hold. 

"  And  now " — Myrto  went  on,  still  with  the  perfect 
mimicry  which  was  one  of  her  small  accomplishments,  "  how 
would  you  rather  have  me  prove  my  point  —  in  a  myth,  as 
an  old  man  does  to  young  people  —  or  by  means  of  argu- 
ment?" 

Asia  had  been  making  a  pretence  of  dusting  the  few  statu- 
ettes about  the  room.  She  now  stood  at  her  ease,  with  her 
hands  on  her  hips,  and  eyes  over-running  with  laughter. 

'  The  actors  themselves  —  yes,  and  even  Aristophanes 
should  hear  you  —  child." 

Myrto  narrowed  her  beautiful  eyes  and  pinched  her  pout- 
ing lips.  She  was  trying  to  look  as  much  like  her  father  as 
she  could.  "  As  I  hold  you  to  be  a  woman  of  varied  expe- 
rience, who  has  learned  may  things  from  others,  and  who 
has  found  out  many  for  yourself  —  I  believe  you  are  right." 


HE&MIONE  AND  MYRTO  241 

As  Myrto  finished  her  phrase  —  a  perfect  copy  of  her  father's 
lofty  language  —  her  childish  face  changed,  as  a  fresh  im- 
pulse seized  her.  She  hopped  to  the  ground  —  she  began 
suddenly  to  spin  about.  Round  and  round  she  spun,  whirl- 
ing her  draperies  till  they  stood  about  her,  stiffened  with 
air. 

"  See  —  Asia  —  I  am  as  large  as  watery  moon  —  in  mid- 
summer," she  cried,  in  her  natural  voice.  Presently  she  took 
a  plunge  downward,  to  come  to  a  swift  upright,  on  her  knees, 
in  the  very  middle  of  her  successful  cheese.  Then  she 
laughed,  outright.  Her  childish  nature  was  as  light  as 
froth,  once  more.  It  was  so  much  easier  to  be  gay  than 
sad !  Even  the  bitter-sweet  of  love  was  not  a  taste  one  could 
wish  for  —  every  moment  of  the  day.  When  her  mother 
came  in  it  would  be  time  to  be  sorrowful.  She  might  as 
well  enjoy  this  thrill  born  of  the  giddy  thought  of  the  great 
coming  event. 

Hermione  caught  sight  of  Myrto  as  she  entered  the  pastas. 
The  child's  laughing  radiance,  her  gay  rebound,  as  she 
brought  her  slender  shape  to  an  upright,  the  toss  of  the 
spirited  golden-crowned  head,  made  Hermione's  heart  tighten 
anew,  with  keen  anguish.  How  passing  fair  was  her  dar- 
ling! 

At  Myrto's  cry  — "Ah  —  here's  mother  —  at  last !  "  Her- 
mione nerved  herself  to  smile.  Some  of  her  moral  energy 
had  returned  to  her  with  the  play  of  her  brushes.  She 
kissed  Myrto  lovingly,  with  calm  eyes. 

Myrto  started.  She  did  not  return  the  kiss.  She  had 
caught  sight  of  her  mother's  faintly-tinted  cheeks.  Her 
mother's  care  in  dressing  thus  early,  brought  anew  to  Myrto, 
in  dreadful  clearness,  the  phantoms  of  fear  she  had  been 
fighting  all  the  morning.  Never  would  Hermione  have 
taken  the  pains  to  make  herself  so  beautiful,  unless  something 
quite  terrible  was  to  be  said  or  done. 


242         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

"  Mother,  mother  " —  cried  Myrto  terror-stricken,  with 
outstretched  hands  — "  What  is  it  that  is  to  happen  to  me 
—  what  is  it  you  wish  to  say  to  me?  "  and  she  flung  herself 
upon  her  mother's  neck. 

Hermione  patted  the  soft,  hot  cheek,  laying  her  own 
scarcely  less  heated,  upon  it. 

"  Hush,  child !  Be  calm !  Remember  the  old  saying  — 
that  there  are  the  gates  for  us  all  —  the  gates  that  open  on 
the  paths  of  night  and  day.  Who  knows  but  the  gate  for 
you  may  be  opening  upon  the  day?  Come  —  let  us  walk 
forth  —  into  the  sun.  We  need  to  quiet  our  nerves.  The 
air  will  bring  healing — " 

Quieted,  she  scracely  knew  why  or  how,  save  that  always 
her  mother  had  this  power  of  soothing,  Myrto  let  herself  be 
led  outward  beyond  the  open  door. 

The  two  passed  out  into  the  tiny  square  that  did  duty 
for  a  garden.  It  had  been  twice  as  large  only  two  short 
years  ago.  Like  so  much  of  Hermione's  property  that  had 
been  eaten  and  drunk  up,  the  other  half  had  been  sold  to 
pay  for  some  of  Critias'  extravagances. 

Small  as  was  the  enclosed  bit  of  green,  under  the  warm 
Athenian  sun,  it  bloomed  as  brightly  as  the  rich  valleys  of 
their  own  Euboean  fields. 

Critias,  whose  economies  always  took  the  form  of  such 
acts  as  might  minister  directly  or  indirectly  to  his  own 
comfort,  or  to  increase  of  pocket,  had  forbidden  all  plants  or 
flowers  or  even  trees  to  be  grown  that  were  purely  orna- 
mental. Roses,  violets,  lilies,  narcissi,  the  sweet-breathed 
margeraine,  cyclamen  —  these  were  useful  for  either  chap- 
lets  or  for  funeral  wreaths.  Peach  blossoms,  also,  in  their 
season,  were  good  to  behold  on  fresh,  fair  beauties,  at  one's 
symposia. 

Critias  could  not,  however,  stay  the  flight  of  birds,  nor 
their  instinct  for  nest-building;  nor  could  he  shut  out  rac- 


HERMIONE  AND  MYRTO  243 

ing  clouds  across  the  blue  shield  of  the  Athenian  sky;  nor 
could  he  stop  bees  on  their  way  from  Hymettus  to  their 
hives  in  the  Attican  plains  from  buzzing  loudly  about  Her- 
mione's  carefully  tended  flowers.  So  birds  twittered  and 
sang,  the  sky  rained  brightness  and  warmth,  bees  hummed 
merrily,  and  the  noise  and  tumult  of  an  eager,  restless,  pas- 
sionate-veined people  beat  in  unceasing  pulsations  upon  the 
resonant  Athenian  air. 

On  this  lovely  Spring  morning,  the  peach  trees  were  in 
their  rosiest  bloom.  Their  shell-like  blossoms,  tossing  in  a 
light  wind  against  the  clear  azure,  made  a  pink  screen. 
Against  these  traceries  Hermione's  delicately-sprigged  gar- 
ments, and  the  golden  yellow  of  Myrto's  chiton  were  flutter- 
ing, as  the  two  walked  onward,  like  larger  flowers  in  motion. 

Down  the  narrow  path,  between  the  budding  stalks,  the 
two  passed,  still  with  their  arms  about  each  other.  Her- 
mione  wore  now  her  most  abstracted  air.  The  knot  of  her 
anxious  thought  was  gathered  in  between  her  brows.  As 
she  passed  the  buds,  she  fingered  them  as  though  asking 
counsel  of  nature. 

Presently  she  loosened  her  arm,  to  raise  it,  high  above 
her  head.  She  broke  one  of  the  larger  branches  of  a  tree, 
in  full  blossom.  She  held  it,  still  in  the  trance  of  her 
thought,  above  their  heads,  in  lieu  of  a  parasol.  For  the 
Spring  sun  was  hot  at  this  hour. 

A  moment  later  Hermione  found  her  voice.  Above  the 
insect-whirring  sounds  it  broke  on  Myrto's  ear,  in  its  rare 
note  of  parental  authority. 

"  There  is  not  in  all  the  world,  my  child,  a  moment  so 
important  for  us  women,  as  that  which  brings  to  us  the 
news  that  our  parents  have  chosen  for  us  the  man  who  is 
to  be  our  husband  — " 

Myrto  groaned.  When  her  mother  took  upon  her  to 
lecture  her  thus,  the  very  worst  was  to  follow. 


244          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Hermione  went  on,  to  gain  time :  "  Sore  is  the  burden 
God  has  laid  upon  us  women;  sorer  yet  —  a  gift  worse 
than  death  —  is  an  unmated  life.  Dreadful  is  such  a  future 
—-hideous,  dishonoured!  Old  age  looms  up,  a  fearful  fate 

—  the  worst  that  may  befall  a  woman.     To  sit  in  obscurity, 
while  others,  our  friends,  our  cousins,   our  relations,  have 
an  honoured  place  in  men's  eyes,  for  as  mothers  —  as  house- 
wives—  Ah  and  alas!   even  as  wives  we  were  once  hon- 
oured "— 

"  Oh  Mother!  Mother!  "  cried  Myrto,  in  feverish  tones, 
"  Why  lecture  me  thus  ?  Why  not  tell  me  what  is  before 
me?" 

"  Because,  my  child,  it  is  well  you  should  know  these 
things  —  because  I  want'  you  to  remember  the  married 
woman's  portion  —  and  the  horror  of  the  unmated.  It  is 
better  for  a  woman  to  be  dead  than  to  have  no  household 
of  her  own  to  manage.  To  be  unprayed  for  by  one's  chil- 
dren and  one's  children's  children  —  no  curse  of  the  gods  is 
so  fearful." 

Myrto  laid  her  cheek  on  her  mother's  bare  shoulder. 
She  knew  full  well  what  was  meant.  It  was  to  prepare  her 
mind  for  the  very  worst. 

"  Then  it  will  not  be  Timoleon  —  mother  dear  ?  "  she 
ventured  to  breathe. 

"You  are  always  babbling  of  Timoleon."  (In  point  of 
fact  it  was  but  the  second  time  Myrto  had  dared  to  breathe 
his  name  before  her  mother.)  "He  is  no  match  for  you 

—  or  for  any  one,  even  one  much  less  high  born.    His  father 
an  exile  —  the  estates  confiscated  —  Timoleon  living  on   a 
petty  sandal  shop,  with  a  handful  of  slaves!     Such  a  match 
would  make  you  the  laughing  stock  of  Athens." 

"  He  is  reputed  to  be  clever  —  mother,  and  he  is  noble  — 
and  in  the  best  society,"  Myrto  persisted,  with  a  grieving 
voice. 


HERMIONE  AND  MYRTO  245 

"Your  subtle  thinkers  are  ever  beggars!  Look  at  Soc- 
rates !  As  for  the  best  society  —  Timoleon  belongs  there  — 
that  no  one  can  deny.  Yet  he  lowers  himself  to  turn  spy 

—  to  be  the  ear  of  Alcibiades." 

At  this  point  of  their  talk,  mother  and  daughter  had 
reached  a  low  marble  seat;  its  crescent-curved  back,  and  its 
lion's  claws,  lay  beneath  the  one  poplar  of  their  little  gar- 
den. So  many  late  Autumns  and  early  Springs  had  seen  the 
two  seated  there,  that  both  sat  down,  as  much  from  habit, 
as  because  of  the  shade  afforded  by  the  thick  bushes  behind 
the  tree.  No  sooner  were  they  seated  than  Hermione  put 
her  firm  hand  on  her  child's  round  arm. 

"  Myrto —  you  must  think  no  more  of  Timoleon.  You 
must  be  reasonable.  Have  courage.  Show  me  —  show  the 
gods  you  know  how  to  accept  your  fate." 

"Mother  —  is  it  so  terrible?  Oh,  who  is  it?"  And 
Myrto  clasped  her  hands,  bending  face  and  shoulders  for- 
ward, as  if  to  wring  the  answer  from  her  mother. 

"'Tis  Ion!" 

Myrto  sprang  to  her  feet,  as  though  stung.  With  eyes 
starting  from  her  lids,  with  her  breath  hardening  on  her 
lips,  her  nostrils  wide  apart,  she  looked,  as  she  stood  before 
her  mother,  a  breathing  statue  of  outraged  pride. 

"Ion  —  the  son  of  Crates  —  of  the  Piraeus?"  she  cried 
out,  in  a  tone  of  horror. 

"  The  same."  Her  mother's  voice  was  as  laden  with 
resignation  as  was  Myrto's  with  hot  anger.  Myrto's  voice 

—  one  new  to  her  mother  —  rang  out  now,  with  a  trumpet- 
like  resonance. 

"  Ion  ?  I  am  to  wed  Ion  —  a  low-bred,  low-born  ship- 
merchant's  son?  Mother  —  are  you  mad?  Is  my  father 
crazed  ?  Timoleon  no  match  for  me  ? —  and  yet  is  the  son 
of  a  low  tradesman  given  me  as  my  soul's  companion !  Oh 
mother,  mother  J  Let  me  die  first,  and  so  end  my  miseries." 


246         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

In  the  passion  of  her  high-wrought  feeling,  Myrto  flung 
herself  at  her  mother's  feet.  She  buried  her  head  in  Her- 
mione's  lap,  in  a  burst  of  weeping.  Hermione  wisely  at- 
tempted, at  first,  merely  to  soothe  and  quiet  the  sobbing 
girl.  Her  talk  of  persuasion  would  come  later. 

Even  as  she  soothed  her  Myrto,  above  her  bowed  head, 
as  in  a  vision,  Hermione  saw  other  figures  than  those  of 
stately  lily  and  blooming  rose-stalk,  quivering  in  the  noon 
radiance. 

The  vision  of  her  own  youth  rose  up,  clear  and  plainly 
imaged.  The  noble,  ancestral  house  —  so  old  it  had  stood 
in  the  very  Agora;  her  mother's  stately  presence  in  the 
court  where  she  had  reigned  and  ruled,  equal  in  authority, 
as  she  was  in  birth  and  fortune,  to  her  distinguished  hus- 
band, and  treated  as  such:  her  father's  importance  in 
Athens  as  one  of  its  most  noted,  influential  citizens,  as  one 
of  the  Alcmaeonids  whose  magnificence  had  rebuilt  the  Silver 
Gates  of  the  great  Temple  at  Delphi  —  Ah!  the  happy, 
sheltered,  joyous  youth !  —  these  honoured  parents ! 

Could  a  contrast  be  grimmer,  more  poignantly  sorrowful 
than  her  life,  after  marriage,  with  Critias? 

With  the  hope  and  buoyant  gaiety  of  a  budding  Psyche 
she  had  gone  to  her  husband.  One  by  one  the  illusions  of 
love  and  happiness  had  fled.  Critias  knew  but  one  law  for 
women  —  the  convenient  law  Pericles,  her  own  hated  kins- 
man, had  made  —  with  his  deep  political  designs  on  men's 
time  and  their  ambitions.  Hermione  had  lived  out  her  life 
in  this  her  "Athenian  prison."  Children  had  come,  to 
bloom,  as  did  the  flowers  in  this  crowded  garden,  the  sole 
solace  of  her  narrow  life.  Critias  had  found  a  way  to  strike 
her  even  in  this  —  her  one  holy  happiness.  When  a  fourth 
daughter  was  born  —  Critias  had  revolted. 

Hermione  awoke,  after  her  sleep  following  her  delivery, 
to  find  the  newly-born  babe  gone.  Critias'  labour  had  taken 


HERMIONE  AND  MYRTO  247 

the  form  of  economy:  he  had  ordered  the  girl-babe  exposed 
on  the  Temple  steps. 

At  this  period  of  their  fortunes,  Critias'  cruel  act  would 
have  been  judged  leniently,  by  most  Athenians.  Having 
married  an  heiress,  Hermione's  father  had  proved  most 
amazingly  long-lived.  Three  girls  and  a  son,  born  in  quick 
succession,  and  next  to  no  income!  Surely  few  Athenian 
fathers  would  find  voice  to  condemn  so  prudent  an  act  as 
to  place  the  one  girl  too  many  under  the  care  of  Theseus. 

Hermione  had  arisen  from  her  bed  of  pain  with  a  curse 
on  her  lips.  Hecate  had  answered  her  —  and  her  curse 
had  struck  her  own  soul  hardest.  For  a  short  while  after 
her  child  was  taken,  the  plague  came.  Her  girl  babies, 
one  by  one,  were  carried  off.  Her  arms  were  all  but  left 
empty.  Her  eldest  born  alone  remained  to  her,  Thrasy- 
bulous.  Then  Juno  and  Hestia  heard  her  agonized  prayers. 
And  Myrto  was  born.  As  though  to  placate  Critias,  Sera- 
pion  —  the  great  beauty  of  the  family  —  had  come  in  the 
following  year.  The  lost  babe,  however,  had  never  ceased  to 
be  mourned. 

Into  what  houses  had  she  not  sent  Asia,  to  search  for 
her  lost  darling?  Into  how  many  a  flute-girl's  face  had  she 
not  herself  peered  —  on  the  occasions  of  her  rare  outings 
—  dreading,  yet  hoping  to  see  some  feature,  some  hint  of 
resemblance!  The  thought  of  her  child's  possible  fate  dark- 
ened every  waking  moment,  as  the  hope  of  finding  her  lit 
up  her  darkest  hour. 

To  Myrto's  young  lips  the  cup  of  married  misery  must 
now  be  pressed.  How  could  she  bear  it?  How  could  she 
find  strength  to  beat  down  this  agony  of  rebellion,  of  hurt 
pride,  and  —  above  all,  how  nerve  her  lips  to  praise  this 
low-born  suitor,  who  was  to  take  her  Myrto  from  her? 

Hermione,  nevertheless,  found  her  words. 

"  Who  knows,  child  —  but  you  may  grow  to  love  him  ? 


248         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

He  is  amiable  and  tender  —  the  women  say  —  and  he  is 
beautiful  to  look  upon  —  and  now  he  is  famous." 

"Is  he  old,  mother?"  Myrto's  voice  bleated,  from  be- 
tween the  folds  covering  her  mother's  bosom,  where  she  had 
lain  her  head. 

"No,  child  —  quite  young  —  not  thirty  yet.  If  you  are 
wise  and  careful  —  you  may  have  power  over  him.  Young 
men  are  more  easily  led  than  a  man  who  is  nearer  forty  " — 
and  her  mother  sighed.  "  All  rests  with  you,  child,"  she 
went  on,  softly,  patting  Myrto's  beautiful  head.  "  You 
know  how  to  sing  prettily,  to  dance,  and  to  touch  the  strings 
of  the  cithara  —  you  know  more  than  merely  how  to  weave 
wool  into  a  garment,  or  to  weigh  out  the  stores  for  the 
slaves  — " 

"  You  know  more  than  I  —  mother  —  and  yet  — " 

"  Hush,  child !  "  cried  Hermione,  with  the  bitter  note  in 
her  voice  any  reference  to  her  own  marriage  always  brought 
— "  times  are  changed.  We  wives  once  had  our  place  —  we 
were  the  counsellors  of  men  —  their  companions.  It  is  that 
vile  democrat,  it  was  Pericles  who  brought  us  to  this  Asiatic 
nullity.  Our  husbands  find  it  more  agreeable,  more  con- 
venient —  to  lock  us  in  with  the  slaves  —  when  they  go 
abroad  to  air  their  idleness.  But  you  —  in  your  case  — 
things  will  be  different.  Ion  will  look  up  to  you  —  for  you 
are  noble.  If  you  speak  to  him  fair,  he  may  treat  you  with 
respect.  Wives  higher  born  than  their  husbands  may  still 
hope  to  win  a  fair  crown  of  honour.  If  he  live  in  the  coun- 
try —  away  from  Athens  — " 

For  the  second  time  since  the  beginning  of  their  talk, 
Myrto  stood  upright.  But  this  time  it  was  to  clasp  her 
hands  tight.  She  cried  out,  with  a  great  ring  of  joy  in  her 
young  voice: 

"We  will  live  in  the  country?  Mother  —  Oh  mother, 
darling,  shall  I  have  power  enough  to  make  him  live  in  the 


HERMIONE  AND  MYRTO  249 

country?  "  Myrto  was  only  uttering  the  cry  that  lay  on  the 
lips  of  every  Athenian  woman;  since,  for  women,  a  life  in 
the  country  meant  comparative  freedom  from  restraint,  and 
a  daily  walk,  at  least,  under  the  open  sky. 

"  He  rears  his  own  horses,  it  appears,"  Hermione  went  on, 
impartially.  "  His  father  has  given  him  a  great  estate  in 
Arcadia.  He  may  wish  to  bring  up  his  children  there  also." 
Suddenly  Hermione's  voice  changed,  and  her  eyes  started 
outwards.  "  One  misfortune  the  gods  will  avert  from  you 
—  he  is  rich  enough  to  rear  all  the  children  that  may  come 
to  you  —  none  need  be  taken  from  you!"  It  was  her 
mother's  turn  now  to  have  a  sob  rise  in  her  throat. 

Folding  her  arms  about  her  mother,  Myrto  cooed  lov- 
ingly: "Never  mind  —  mother  darling  —  you  have  had 
me  —  and  who  knows  ?  Perhaps  when  I  am  gone,  we  may 
find  her.  Fortune  is  good  — sometimes  her  wheel  turns.  If 
I  travel  and  go  as  far  as  Arcadia  —  but  what  is  Asia  trying 
to  tell  us  ? "  Asia  stood  now  in  the  open  door  of  the 
pastas. 

"  The  lady  Nausicaa  is  come."  There  were  snapping 
tones  in  Asia's  voice.  Her  great  eyes  shone  fierce.  The 
nobly-set  head  was  flung  backward,  with  the  haughty  pose 
she  had  caught  from  Hermione. 

"Ah-h  —  is  there  any  news?"  asked  Hermione,  hastily, 
as  she  rose,  wiping  away  the  last  traces  of  her  tears. 

"  Oh  —  there's  news  enough.  Nausicaa  remembers  the 
proverb  that  '  Once  in  the  olden  time  the  Milesians  were 
brave,'  She  has  proved  her  bravery  once  more  by  flaunting 
her  face  in  the  Market  Place,"  snorted,  disdainfully,  the  old 
slave. 

"  Hush  —  Asia  —  she'll  hear  you." 

"  She'd  hear  the  truth  then,  for  once  in  her  wicked  life," 
grunted  Asia,  standing  aside  to  let  her  mistress  and  Myrto 
cross  the  threshold. 


Chapter  XXII 

NAUSICAA 

Nausicaa  was  leaning,  with  indolent  grace,  against  the 
one  column  that  was  still,  at  high  noon,  in  the  shade.  Two 
of  her  women  were  kneeling  at  her  feet.  They  were  per- 
forming the  customary  ablutions.  The  perfumed  stream 
poured  over  the  white  feet  had  the  quality  of  density  —  it 
played  about  Nausicaa's  robes  like  a  rising  cloud.  The 
splendid  figure,  its  breadth  of  bust  and  shoulder  lines  topped 
by  the  delicately-modelled  head  and  the  expressive-featured 
face,  rose  out  of  the  scented  mist  with  the  grace  and  bloom 
of  an  opulent  flower. 

At  every  turn  of  the  flexible  figure  a  gleam  of  silver,  or 
of  gold,  or  the  deep  light  of  rich  gems  shone  and  glittered. 
The  fillet  into  which  the  reddish-brown  locks  were  gathered, 
was  of  wrought  gold  and  silver,  pearl-studded;  the  clasps 
confining  the  low-cut  chiton  at  the  shoulders  and  along  the 
arms,  were  cloudy  agates  set  about  with  deep-hued  garnets; 
the  swaying  ear-rings  were  exquisitely  wrought  doves  hover- 
ing above  a  tiny  Venus.  Each  of  the  doves  bore  a  priceless 
pearl  in  his  beak.  The  border  of  the  chiton  was  a  mass  of 
embroidery  —  one  marvelled  to  see  as  delicate  a  tissue  sus- 
tain as  heavy  a  weight  of  golden  bees  and  silver-wrought 
flowers. 

Nausicaa  brought  into  this  mean  little  court  something 
of  the  gay  tumult,  the  ceaseless  motion,  and  the  excitable 
stir  of  the  outer  Athenian  life.  The  fact  that  she  did  was, 
as  she  well  knew,  accounted  unto  her  as  a  crime.  Hermione 

250 


NAUSICAA  251 

might  have  forgiven  Nausicaa  her  beauty;  she  might  even 
have  managed  to  forget  the  stain  of  her  foreign  birth,  her 
want  of  Athenian  breeding  and  refinement:  it  was  the 
shameless  independence  of  life  she  had  brought  with  her 
from  her  Asian-ruled  Greek  Island  that  made  her  relation- 
ship a  daily  disgrace. 

Nausicaa  presented  an  unabashed  front  to  the  wall  of  her 
mother-in-law's  hate.  She  made  a  point  of  never  stepping 
her  white  feet  within  the  Critias'  court,  unless  she  had  some- 
thing to  gain  by  the  move. 

Had  Hermione  given  her  consent  to  this  marriage  project? 
Had  Myrto's  silly  little  heart  been  touched  by  Timoleon's 
daring?  Had  Timoleon's  presumably  impassioned  utter- 
ances—  over  the  garden  wall,  for  one  of  Nausicaa's  slaves 
had  seen  him  —  had  these  worked  the  miracle  of  revolt  in 
that  childish  nature?  Nausicaa  might  not  be  able  to  unseal 
Hermione's  proud  lips,  but  her  own  eyes  could  be  trusted 
to  tell  her  all  she  wished  to  know. 

Even  as  she  stood  waiting  for  Hermione  and  Myrto  to 
appear,  Nausicaa  felt  herself  to  be  still  tingling  with  ex- 
citement. The  streets  had  been  fuller  than  common. 
Every  shop  had  been  ablaze  with  news;  gossip  was  as  busy 
on  men's  lips  as  were  the  whir  of  bees'  wings  on  the  hill- 
slopes  of  Hymettus.  The  whole  city  was  thrilling,  as  one 
man,  with  the  stirrings  of  curiosity  and  of  wildest  con- 
jecture. Athens,  in  a  word,  on  this  brilliant  morning,  was 
experiencing  one  of  her  most  delectable  sensations  —  she  was 
rioting  in  a  complicated  play  of  emotions  centering  in  a 
single  individual,  and  that  individual  one  both  hated  and 
adored. 

Out  from  the  bright-tongued,  witty-lipped  crowd, 
Nausicaa  and  her  woman  had  hurried.  To  pass  from  the 
contagion  of  the  excitable,  moving,  and  moved  groups  of 
citizens  into  the  dulness  and  stagnant  pool  of  Hermione's 


252         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

gynaeconitis  was  like  exchanging  the  gift  of  life  itself  for 
death's  rigidity. 

Nausicaa's  temper  proved  how  little  to  her  liking  was  her 
enforced  indoor  coming.  A  deep  frown  darkened  her  brow. 
With  her  white  foot  extended  for  the  drying  process,  her 
impatience  burst  from  her. 

"  That  is  right,  Chloe,  put  the  parasol  out  of  the  sun  — 
if  you  can  find  a  spot  of  shade  in  this  miserable  court! 
Philippa  —  you  fool !  —  can't  you  even  fold  a  veil  decently 
—  without  crumpling?  One  would  think  you  were  hired 
by  the  day  —  at  an  obol  the  hour !  " 

Hermione's  stately  figure,  she  now  perceived,  was  moving 
slowly  towards  her.  Myrto,  like  a  kid  following  its  moth- 
er's lead,  was  at  her  heels.  Nausicaa's  look  quickly  changed. 
She  greeted  her  relatives  with  her  usual  air  of  superiority 
and  effrontery. 

"Ah  —  mother-in-law  —  I've  brought  you  a  new  per- 
fume, as  you  see.  I  picked  it  up  on  my  way  —  it  clears 
the  skin,  they  say.  Such  a  time  as  I  had  getting  it!  May 
I  perish  if  I  every  try  to  get  through  the  crowds  —  under 
the  colonnades  —  again,  at  mid-day.  Such  a  rush !  I 
thought  I  should  have  been  mobbed.  But  —  good  gracious ! 
Here  am  I  babbling  of  perfumes,  when  neither  of  you  — 
I'll  warrant  —  know  the  morning's  news." 

Between  her  swift  sentences,  Nausicaa's  eyes  were  scan- 
ning the  faces  before  her.  The  marriage  obviously  had 
been  talked  over; — Hermione  was  furious,  Myrto  had  been 
crying  — "  I  must  make  them  talk  " —  was  her  quick,  inward 
summary. 

Hermione,  meanwhile,  had  led  the  way  silently,  to  the 
shaded  interior  of  the  pastas.  Nausicaa  proceeded  at  once, 
and  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  take  her  favourite  seat  and 
attitude.  She  threw  herself  at  full  length  on  the  one  lux- 
urious cpuch.  Propping  the  pillows  behind  her,  until  she 


NAUSICAA  253 

sat  at  an  upright,  with  her  limbs  comfortably  outstretched, 
she  was  now  ready  to  begin. 

She  would  first  startle  and  delight  her  listeners,  and 
then  draw  them  on. 

"You  say  the  Market  Place  was  full  this  morning?" 
Hermione  remarked,  distantly.  Her  calm,  critical  eyes 
watched  Nausicaa  building  her  rampart  of  pillows  behind 
her. 

"  Full  ?  "  Nausicaa  echoed,  as  she  gave  the  last  cushions  a 
shove  with  her  elbow — "the  streets  were  packed.  Such 
a  rabble!  All  Athens  is  in  an  uproar !"  Then  she  stopped. 
She  also  smiled  —  with  tantalizing  composure.  She  made 
a  pretence  of  re-adjusting  a  clasp  upon  her  shoulder.  Hav- 
ing thrown  her  bait,  it  was  her  pleasure  to  see  the  fishes 
nibble. 

"  Ah-h  —  and  what  is  your  news?"  Hermione  asked, 
eagerly.  She  disapproved  of  her  daughter-in-law,  but  she 
was  too  true  an  Athenian  not  to  be  bitten  by  the  gnat  of 
curiosity.  She  leaned  forward,  her  close  draperies  tight 
about  her  knees. 

"  Is  it  possible  you  have  not  heard  that  of  which  all 
Athens  is  talking?  "  cried  Nausicaa,  ironically,  as  she  arched 
her  slim  throat.  She  was  secretly  relishing  her  little  mo- 
ment of  triumph. 

"  The  slaves  are  not  all  home  from  market  yet,"  replied 
Hermione,  collectedly,  disdaining  to  notice  the  scorn  in 
Nausicaa's  voice. 

"  They'll  be  late  then,  this  morning;  for,  as  I  said,  Athens 
is  in  an  uproar."  Nausicaa  arched  her  slim  throat.  She 
lifted  her  clever,  spirited  head  in  high  air.  Her  voice 
took  on  its  most  supercilious  tones.  Presently  she  broke 
forth : 

"Why  do  you  sit  here,  moping  at  home,  while  Athens  is 
making  history  enough  for  all  the  rest  of  Greece?  Thanks 


254          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

be  to  Zeus  I'm  not  an  Athenian!  We  women  of  the  col- 
onies know  life  —  don't  frown,  mother !  —  As  long  as  you 
live,  the  catalogue  of  good  women  won't  be  exhausted.  Yes 

—  yes  —  I'm   coming  to  my  point  —  which  is  more   than 
the  philosophers  do.     But  really,  haven't  you  heard  ?  "  and 
Nausicaa  gasped,  in  well-feigned  horror,  as  she  threw  up 
her  hands. 

"You  forget  —  we  are  allowed  to  go  out  but  seldom." 
Hermione,  as  she  drew  her  noble  form  to  a  more  rigid  pos- 
ure,  looked  more  like  a  statue  than  ever.  Her  very  draper- 
ies seemed  turned  into  stone. 

"  Not  allowed !  "  burst  forth  the  uncontrollable  Nausi- 
caa, lifting  her  chin.  "Great  Jupiter!  A  fine  joke  that 

—  asking  one's  husband  to  go  out.     In  Ionia  such  a  ques- 
tion would  make  a  woman  a  laughing  stock — " 

"  The  ways  of  the  Ionian  Islands  are  not  the  ways  of  the 
nobility  of  Athens,"  said  Hermione,  in  her  iciest  tone,  lean- 
ing back  in  her  chair,  her  hands  clasping  the  ivory  inlaid 
lions'  heads. 

"  Indeed  they  are  not,"  cried  the  unabashed  young  for- 
eigner. "  Dull  indeed  should  we  be  if  they  were.  Little 
wonder  your  husbands  are  always  abroad  —  and  in  the  so- 
ciety of  — " 

"  Nausicaa  —  silence !  "  In  her  anger,  Hermione's  cheeks 
burned  fiery  red  through  her  light  rouge. 

"  Well  —  well  —  I  was  only  about  to  make  a  joke. 
There's  no  sin  in  that,"  cried  Nausicaa,  pouting  like  an 
angry  child.  Then  she  laughed  outright.  The  knowledge 
of  all  she  knew,  and  all  she  withheld,  was  like  oil  upon  a 
heaving  water  surface.  Did  she  but  choose  —  what  an 
awakening  she  could  bring!  About  Critias!  About  Myrto 

—  and  the  modest  child's  stolen  interviews!     But  what  use 
in  getting  angry  with  one  who  preferred  to  sit  in  ignorance  ? 
One  must  talk  to  such  women  as  Hermione  as  one  would  to 


NAUSICAA  255 

children.  She  would  go  on  with  her  tale.  Later  on  she 
would  make  Hermione  tell  her  all  she  wanted  to  know. 

"  Well  then  —  you  must  know,"  and  Nausicaa  settled 
herself  still  more  comfortably  among  her  pillows  —  she 
patted  the  folds  of  her  gown  contentedly,  for  she  dearly  loved 
the  telling  of  a  long  tale — "  that  just  as  I  was  passing  the 
Stoa,  near  the  Kolonos  —  it  was  shady  there,  and  I  kept 
as  near  to  the  houses  as  I  could,  and  well  it  was  for  me  I 
did  —  otherwise  I  and  my  women  might  have  come  forth 
flat  as  cakes  —  what  should  we  hear  but  a  loud  shout  — 
as  loud  as  the  roar  of  battle.  Just  as  I  had  turned  my  head 
to  look  at  the  sprigs  on  the  gown  of  that  flute-girl  —  every 
one  is  calling  her  the  new  beauty  —  those  flute-girls  al- 
ways have  the  latest  inventions,  whatever  one  may  think  of 
their  beauty  —  well,  behind  us  came  this  noise,  loud  enough 
to  wake  the  dead.  Out  from  the  Agora,  on  this  side  of  the 
Ceramicus,  hundreds  and  hundreds  were  hurrying,  rushing 
pell-mell,  as  though  the  furies  were  behind  them  —  towards 
the  Prytanieum — " 

"  Oh-h  —  of  course — Hipparate  was  to  go  before  the 
Archon  this  morning*,"  excitedly  interrupted  Hermione. 
Both  she  and  Myrto  were  now  leaning  forward  on  their 
chairs,  with  eyes  wide  with  eagerness. 

"  Exactly,"  confirmed  Nausicaa,  with  a  superior  nod  of 
her  head.  "  She  was  to  go  in  person  —  to  present,  as  is 
usual,  the  causes  which  entitle  her  to  her  divorce.  Well  — 
I  had  the  luck  to  see  her  go  in  —  her  brother,  and  the 
Archon  —  all  went  in  together."  Nausicaa  emphasized  her 
words  with  pats  on  her  embroidered  robe  covering  her 
pointed  knee. 

"How  did  she  look?  Frightened?  Abashed?  Sad? 
Poor  Hipparate!  What  a  plight  for  a  modest  woman  to 

"This  incident,  as  related  by  Plutarch,  is  said  to  have  trans- 
pired just  prior  to  the  departure  of  Alcibiades  for  Ephesus. 


256         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

come  to !  "  Hermione's  cheeks  were  crimson.  Her  voice 
was  full  of  loving  sympathy.  In  the  excitement  of  the  mo- 
ment Myrto  had  flung  herself  beside  her  mother.  The  two 
clasped  each  other  close  —  their  draperies  melted  as  one. 

"  You  may  well  say  so,"  purred  Nausicaa,  as  though  mod- 
'esty  were  her  own  pet  virtue.  "  She  looked  her  tragedy,  I 
can  tell  you.  She  was  veiled  from  head  to  foot,  with  her 
head  bowed,  as  though  she  was  following  a  corpse." 

"  And  so  she  was  —  the  corpse  of  her  married  happi- 
ness! "  Hermione's  voice  seemed  to  be  chanting  the  dirge 
of  her  own  married  joys,  as  her  arm  tightened  about  Myrto. 
But  Nausicaa's  flute-like  tones  rang  on,  unheeding.  She 
was  indeed,  greatly  enjoying  the  scene.  Her  sense  of  hu- 
mour was  keen.  To  make  her  two  listeners  quake  and 
thrill  at  the  news  she  brought  them  from  the  haunts  of 
men  —  knowing  how  they  scourged  her  behind  her  back  for 
her  shameless  ways  —  was  the  relish  to  the  sauce  of  her 
satisfaction. 

"  Well  —  my  dear  mother  —  to  be  rid  of  Alcibiades,  one 
might  think,  would  call  rather  for  pasons  than  dirges. 
Hipparate's  ideal  of  life  can  now  be  realized  —  she  can  spend 
all  her  life  at  home  —  alone,  and  in  chastity."  Nausicaa 
gave  Hermione  a  peculiar,  slanting  look,  with  lips  curving 
with  mischievous  meaning. 

Hermione  leaned  back  in  the  deep  curve  of  her  chair. 
Myrto's  head  sank  upon  the  beautiful  shoulder.  Hermione 
had  recaptured  her  calm,  and  with  her  calm,  her  iced  dig- 
nity. "  Did  you  also  see  Alcibiades?  "  She  lifted  cool  eyes 
to  Nausicaa's  impertinence. 

"Oh  —  that  was  enough  to  make  one  curse  one's  luck! 
I  missed  him  by  not  more  than  a  minute.  I  had  just  turned 
into  the  nearest  street,  to  get  out  of  the  crowd  and  its 
jostling,  when  —  but  —  in  Heaven's  name  —  what  noise  is 
that?" 


NAUSICAA  257 

With  a  common  impulse  the  women  rose  to  their  feet. 
Hermione's  and  Nausicaa's  eyes  were  interlocked.  Won- 
der, excitement,  fear  —  the  startled  eyes  as  they  met,  said 
all  and  more  than  this.  Hostility  died  out.  They  were 
women  with  a  common  fate  —  a  common  passion. 

The  noisy  tumult  —  to  those  Athens-born  —  the  bustle 
and  cries  to  all  dwellers,  indeed,  in  that  drama-yielding  city 
could  mean  but  one  thing.  A  great  event  was  happening, 
and  all  Athens  was  thrilling  to  it ! 

Hermione,  with -swift  strides,  had  now  reached  the  gar- 
den path.  Nausicaa  and  Myrto  were  close  upon  her  heels. 
Though  they  could  see  naught,  yet  the  best  chances  of  their 
hearing,  at  least  an  echo  of  the  tumult  beating  upon  the  air, 
was  to  stand  within  the  little  garden  paths. 

Over  the  tall  garden  walls  came  the  sounds  of  rustling 
garments,  and  of  sandalled  feet,  rushing  onwards.  Cries, 
exclamations,  and  bursts  of  laughter  would  rise,  like  a  loud 
and  boisterous  wind,  from  some  of  the  groups  hurrying  past. 
Graver  tones,  freighted  with  awed  wonder,  succeeded  to  the 
more  explosive  mirth.  Then  all  would  be  still.  Through 
the  narrow  alley  on  which  the  garden  opened,  these  groups 
of  excited  citizens  had  passed,  the  quicker  to  gain  the  broader 
dromos. 

"  Oh  —  is  there  no  way  of  looking  out  upon  the  street?  " 
cried  Nausicaa.  She  was  fairly  wringing  her  hands  in  de- 
spair. 

She  faced  her  relatives  for  the  first  time  with  longing,  al- 
most loving  looks.  Hermione  returned  the  wild  gaze. 

Myrto  turned  from  the  shrubs  nearest  to  the  walls,  to 
face  her  mother  with  beaming  eyes. 

"Oh  mother!  I  hear  voices  —  one  can  hear  all  that  is 
said!" 

The  two  ladies  hurried  toward  Myrto. 

'"'  Where  —  where  is  the  best  place  ?  "     They  turned  ap- 


258         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

pealing  eyes  to  Myrto,  as  though  questioning  an  authority. 

Myrto  squeezed  herself  closer  to  the  wall  and  did  not 
think  it  necessary  to  explain  how  her  knowledge  had  been 
gained. 

Up  from  the  street,  to  the  women's  outstretched  ears, 
came  broken,  disjointed  sentences,  ejaculations,  gasps  of 
mingled  wonder  and  horror. 

"  I  tell  you  'tis  true,"  cried  a  strong  assured  voice.  "  He 
took  Phocia,  Irene,  and  Korinna  —  the  latter  out  of  pity  — 
doubtless,  and  gratitude  —  to  see  how  painted  columns  look, 
in  a  gentleman's  house." 

"  Surely  you  do  not  mean  he  took  these  creatures  to  his 
house?"  ejaculated  a  younger  voice,  in  a  tone  of  horror. 

"  That  is  the  truth  in  a  nutshell.  Like  a  true  artist,  he 
wished  for  new  backgrounds,  doubtless."  The  first  speak- 
er's witticism  won  him  a  chorus  of  admiring  laughter. 

"By  the  offended  majesty  of  Juno!  I  call  the  act  an 
atrocious  one,"  cried  some  one,  hotly,  the  tones  thrilled  with 
indignation. 

"  Hipparate  —  you  see  —  was  exactly  of  your  opinion  — 
for  she  left  him." 

The  first  speaker  sniffed,  as  he  threw  his  head  back. 
"  Even  the  gods  —  blessed  be  they  one  and  all  —  may  count 
too  much  on  human  patience.  And  Alcibiades  is  but  mor- 
tal. Being  mortal,  he  argued  persumably  that,  since  Hip- 
parate had  borne  so  much,  she  would  bear  more.  He  took 
one  fatal  step,  it  appears  —  too  far.  Hipparate  —  as  he  now 
knows  —  is  but  mortal." 

"And  he  —  an  Immortal,"  cried  out  suddenly,  a  clear 
sonorous  voice.  At  the  sound  of  the  ringing  accents,  both 
Nausicaa  and  Myrto  started.  Nausicaa  paled  beneath  her 
rouge  and  Myrto  blushed.  The  voice  went  on.  "Who 
else  would  dare  defy  gods  and  men?  Who  else  —  before 
the  very  throne  of  justice  itself,  would  have  outraged  the 


NAUSICAA  259 

law,  have  openly  scorned  the  presence  of  King  Archon  and 
have  picked  up  his  wife,  laughing,  as  though  the  whole  pro- 
ceedings were  a  play  —  and  have  carried  her  bodily  out  into 
the  public  places  ?  The  ways  of  Alcibiades  are  the  ways  of 
the  gods  themselves  —  I  tell  you  —  I  — " 

"Hear!  Hear!" 

"  Evoe!  Evoe! "  a  dozen  admiring,  derisive  tongues  cried, 
and  the  group  apparently  circled  closer  in  about  Timoleon  — 
for  it  was  he. 

A  prolonged  murmurous  applause  greeted  this  outburst. 

"  He'll  lead  us  to  ruin  —  if  he  goes  on  with  the  mad 
Sicilian  adventure,"  a  rough  voice  broke  in,  stopping  the 
chorus  of  cheers. 

"He'll  lead  Athens  to  glory!  We  shall  rule  the  world 
—  once  Sicily  is  ours !  "  was  Timoleon's  shouting  rejoinder. 

A  confused  clamour  of  cries  and  shrill-tongued  voices 
rilled  the  street.  Quarrelling,  shouting  war  talk,  the  crowd 
broke,  and  moved  down  towards  the  street  of  Hermes.  The 
voices  grew  fainter  and  fainter. 

The  three  ladies  swept  from  their  hiding.  With  ears 
tingling  with  the  excitement  of  the  street  scene,  with  minds 
and  spirits  strung  to  fever-point  by  all  they  had  heard,  they 
hurried  towards  the  quiet  pastas. 

Once  seated,  their  draperies  carefully  spread  out,  their 
faces  were  a  blank;  they  were  ready  now  for  Critias,  should 
he  appear,  and  his  dreaded  inspection.  Though  not  a  sylla- 
ble was  interchanged  concerning  the  great  event,  even  Nau- 
sicaa  had  no  intention  of  drawing  down  upon  herself  a 
parental  outburst  by  any  betraying  signs  of  the  garden  epi- 
sode. 

All  three  talked  at  once,  as  they  waited  for  Critias. 
Hermione  saw  in  her  great  kinsman's  audacity  the  prophecy 
of  a  double  doom  —  a  new  obstacle  to  women's  having  jus- 
tice done  them,  as  well  as  the  larger  fear  of  what  Alcibiades 


26o         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

might  bring  upon  Athens  —  were  he  indeed  to  rule  the 
city,  and  to  begin  this  new  war.  Nausicaa  took  a  man's 
lighter,  wider  view  of  Hipparate's  tragedy. 

"  Humph  —  this  will  make  him  as  popular  as  though  he 
had  invented  a  new  dance  —  or  philosophy.  We  Athenians 
love  novelties  " —  and  then  she  quickly  pictured  to  herself 
how  she  herself  would  arrange  her  draperies  were  Thrasy- 
bulous  ever  taken  with  a  similar  impulse  for  making  a  public 
exhibition  of  his  marital  power.  At  least  she  would  never 
let  her  feet  dangle. 

Myrto's  young  soul  was  shaken  with  mingled  fear  and 
dazed  amazement.  Although  she  too  talked,  volubly,  in- 
wardly, she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  give  up  Timoleon, 
and  even  to  throw  his  garland  away,  and  at  once.  One 
now,  knew  not  what  might  happen.  Surely  no  woman  or 
maiden  could  feel  safe.  Were  her  father  to  know  of  that 
wonderful  garden-scene  —  poor  Myrto !  —  her  very  soul 
seemed  to  grow  pale  with  fear. 


Chapter  XXIII 

A   FAMILY  SCENE 

AFTER  listening,  with  admirably  feigned  innocence,  to  Cri- 
tias'  meagre  details  of  the  Alcibidian  episode  —  details  ar- 
ranged strictly  with  a  view  to  what  it  was  proper  mere 
women  should  hear  —  of  that  which  was  agitating  all  Athens 

—  and  after  wasting  time  in  the  playing  of  the  usual  femi- 
nine comedy  of  deceit,  Nausicaa  had  managed  to  rid  the 
room  of  Hermoine  and  Myrto.     She  feigned  hunger  —  and 
the  necessity  of  being  at  home,  to  greet  her  husband  on  his 
return  from  a  cock-fight,  at  Sunion. 

Hermione  had  instantly  hastened  to  the  kitchen  —  Myrto 
following  at  her  heels.  Nausicaa,  at  last,  had  the  room 
and  her  father-in-law  to  herself. 

She  had  quickly  dropped  to  her  knees,  beside  Critias. 
Lifting  her  spirited,  mobile  face,  she  crept  close  to  the  bent, 
wondering  eyes.  "  Dear,  dear  Critias,  tell  me,  and  quickly 

—  for  she  may  come  back  at  any  moment  —  tell  me  —  is 
this  marriage  with  Ion  to  go  through  ?  " 

Critias  smiled  down  at  the  lovely  face  so  close  to  his.  He 
disapproved  of  his  daughter-in-law,  but  it  was  beyond  a 
man's  power  not  to  feel  her  attraction.  "  And  why  should 
you  be  so  curious  —  my  young  beauty  —  about  this  mar- 
riage? " 

Nausicaa  arched  her  long  neck.  "And  why  should  I 
not  ?  Is  Ion  not  to  become  one  of  us  ?  " 

Critias  laughed  aloud.  This  Ionian's  pride!  But  Cri- 
tias started.  His  hand  suddenly  released  Nausicaa.  He 
moved  towards  the  hangings  screening  the  court.  For  his 

261 


262          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

ears  had  caught  sounds  that  rang  like  soothing  music  to  his 
excitement. 

Along  the  plastered  floor  of  the  arcades  he  had  heard  the 
tripping  of  a  well-known,  much-beloved  step.  The  sound 
brought  disgust  and  quick  anger  to  Nausicaa.  All  her  deep 
planning  was  brought  to  naught.  To  tell  Timoleon,  Myrto 
was  surely  to  wed  Ion  was  her  one  longing  —  one  hope  of 
happiness  —  and  now !  — 

Meanwhile,  a  lad  not  much  more  than  twelve  was  bound- 
ing towards  Hermione,  just  issuing  from  the  thalamos.  The 
boy  was  clad  in  a  short  tunic.  On  his  head  he  wore  a 
crown  of  blossoms.  In  his  hand  he  was  waving,  as  though 
in  triumph,  a  sprig  of  myrtle.  He  ran  straight  into  his 
mother's  arms.  After  receiving  her  tight  embrace,  he  rushed 
towards  the  pastas,  to  fling  himself  as  impetuously  upon  his 
father's  breast. 

Critias  stooped.  He  kissed  the  boy  with  passionate  fer- 
vour. 

Releasing  him,  but  still  holding  him  at  arm's  length,  Cri- 
tias cried,  in  a  voice  no  one  ever  heard,  save  when  he  spoke 
to  this,  his  true  idol: 

"And  what  have  we  learned  at  school  to-day,  my  Sera- 
pion?" 

The  boy's  face  in  a  moment  was  aglow.  He  blushed,  as 
he  cast  down  his  eyes. 

"  I  took  my  first  lesson  in  the  Pyrrhic  dance,  Sir.  And 
so  well  did  I  perform  my  part  that  the  master  gave  me 
this  " —  and  Serapion  held  up  his  sprig  of  myrtle,  "  and  the 
boys  crowned  me."  The  boy  blushed  again,  with  a  maiden's 
modesty.  It  was  Critias's  boast  that  no  young  noble  in  all 
Greece  could  match  his  son  in  perfection  of  breeding  and 
training.  No  expense  had  been  spared  to  make  him  beauti- 
ful, to  keep  him  modest,  and  to  give  him  strength.  He 
was,  in  truth,  the  very  image  of  modesty. 


A  FAMILY  SCENE  263 

"  You  must  show  us  what  you  can  do,  later  on,"  said 
Critias  looking  at  the  lad,  with  swimming  eyes.  His  lov- 
ing admiration  of  his  son  touched  the  point  of  idolatry. 
"  You  may  go  and  play  now  —  I  need  to  say  a  word  with 
your  mother." 

"  Come,  Myrto,"  cried  Serapion,  taking,  as  usual,  the  in- 
itiative with  his  sister. 

Myrto  had  stood  watching  the  familiar  scene.  She  must 
wait  for  her  moment,  until  her  father  released  Serapion. 
He  now  began  to  drag  Myrto  along  by  her  chiton. 

"  Serapion,"  Myrto  whispered,  as  she  hurried  on- 
wards, "go  to  the  column  opposite  the  kitchen,  and  hide 
there." 

"  Why?  "    Serapion  eyed  her  suspiciously. 
"  Because  I  have  something  amazing  to  tell  you." 
Serapion   threw   upwards   his   bright,    intelligent   glance. 
Perceiving  that  Myrto  was  not  lying,  he  strode  before  her. 
He  took  his  seat  at  the  base  of  a  certain  column  both  had 
found  best  suited  to  confidential  moments. 

"Well  —  and  what's  this  new  disturbance?"  asked  Sera- 
pion, half  petulantly.  He  was  in  haste  to  begin  a  showing- 
off  of  his  acquirements. 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Myrto,  with  a  quick  gasp,  "  it's  most  im- 
portant news."  Myrto  gathered  her  elbows  together,  in  the 
palms  of  both  hands,  and  rocked  her  body.  It  was  her  way 
of  showing  excitement. 

"  I  know  —  it's  that  story  about  Alcibiades  — " 
"  No  —  we  know  that  —  too.     It's  much  more  astound- 
ing.    I  —  I  —  I  am  going  —  to  —  be  —  married." 

Serapion  threw  back  his  blossom-crowned  head.  "  Ha! 
Ha !  that's  a  very  good  joke !  "  and  his  boyish  laughter  rang 
out. 

"  But  I  tell  you,  in  the  name  of  the  gods,  it  is  true," 
cried  Myrto,  indignantly,  with  a  falling  lip.  She  was  half 


264          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

ready  to  cry.  Serapion  was  not  taking  the  great  news  in 
the  least  as  she  had  expected. 

"And  whom  have  they  got  to  marry  you?"  asked  the 
teasing  Serapion. 

"  I'm  to  marry  Ion,  the  son  of  Crates  —  the  richest  of  all 
the  ship-merchants,  and  — " 

"  In  the  name  of  the  gods !  Are  you  not  ashamed  to 
figure  before  all  Athens  as  a  common  merchant's  wife  ?  " 
almost  screamed  the  boy.  He  rose  —  in  his  quick  anger  and 
disgust  he  struck  at  her  arm,  angrily,  with  his  myrtle  branch. 

Myrto  answered  hotly.  She  also  had  risen;  she  faced 
Serapion  with  flaming  eyes.  "  He  is  not  a  merchant  —  he 
is  only  a  merchant's  son  —  and  he  won  the  prize  at  Olympia 

—  for  charioteering.     His  horses  are  —  they  are  famous  — 
and  he  is  clever  —  he  can  turn  a  couplet  and  guess  riddles 

—  and  he  is  rich."     To  her  own  surprise  Myrto  found  her- 
self the  advocate,  and  a  hot,  impassioned  advocate  of  her  un- 
known suitor. 

A  change  came  over  Serapion's  beautiful,  flushed  face. 
He  gave  his  sister  serious  eyes  and  a  sober  look. 

"You  say  he  is  the  Ion  who  won  the  quadriga  race?" 
and  he  narrowed  his  luminous  eyes.  "  I  remember,  now, 
we  boys  were  talking  about  him  —  in  the  palestrae  —  only 
yesterday.  You  are  right  —  he  is  well  known,  and  well 
spoken  of,  if  it  be  the  Ion  whose  horses  are  so  renowned. 
That  alters  matters.  Do  you  think  he  will  lend  me  a 
horse?" 

"  We  will  give  you  two!  "  cried  Myrto,  superbly.  "  We 
are  to  live  in  the  country.  I  mean  to  make  him  fond  of  me 

—  so  that  I  may  do  with  him  as  I  like.     And  since  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  that  —  I  am  willing  to  marry  him. 
You  shall  come  and  stay  with  us." 

"  Very  well,"  Serapion  assented,  with  a  lad's  important 
air  of  being  fully  grown  —  "If  I  like  the  horses  he  gives 


A  FAMILY  SCENE  265 

me,  I  will  come  and  stay  with  you  —  for  a  year  —  when 
I  am  a  man  of  leisure.  What  colour  shall  the  horses  be?  " 

The  two  children  bent  their  heads  close  together,  as  they 
proceeded  to  settle  the  grave  question  of  the  prospective 
horses'  colour. 

Meanwhile,  under  the  upper  end  of  the  arcade  the  hus- 
band and  wife  were  slowly  walking.  "  Have  you  told 
Myrto  ?  "  had  been  Critias'  first  question.  His  eyes  were 
calm  and  controlled  once  more. 

"  Yes  —  she  knows  and  accepts  her  doom,"  Hermione  had 
answered,  with  a  drop  in  her  voice,  as  she  moved  beside  her 
lord. 

"  Pooh !  Doom !  You  are  ever  for  a  wearing  of  the 
tragic  mask.  She'll  be  a  lucky  girl,  as  she  will  find,  once 
she  is  married  to  so  courteous,  handsome,  and  rich  a  man 
as  Ion.  He'll  prove  a  husband  in  a  thousand.  Those  low- 
born men  are  soft  on  their  women.  By  the  way  —  hem !  — 
you  must  now  tell  her  to  keep  quiet  about  the  matter." 

"  Oh-h  Critias,  and  is  the  marriage  off?  "  Hermione  cried, 
in  joyful  tones,  her  heart  leaping  within  her.  She  faced 
her  husband  with  shining,  radiant  eyes. 

"  No-o  —  but  I  saw  Crates  this  morning.  He  tells  me 
Ion  would  like  to  be  free  for  a  few  weeks  yet.  He  appears 
to  be  very  sensible  of  the  honour  we  confer  upon  him." 
Critias  now  put  on  his  most  impressive  swagger.  Once  more 
he  resumed  his  stroll.  "  I  quite  agreed  with  him.  Myrto 
ought  to  be  sixteen  —  at  least,  before  she  marries." 

"  Oh  —  you  are  good  —  you  are  good !  "  cried  Hermione. 
Her  heart  was  overflowing  with  rapture.  She  could  have 
embraced  her  husband  —  surely  he  had  arranged  the  matter 
thus  —  to  please  her.  He  had  seen  how  great  was  her  sor- 
row at  losing  her  darling.  What  a  quick  answer  to  prayer ! 
Apollo  —  the  dear  god!  should  have  a  rich  offering.  She 
would  go,  on  the  morrow,  to  the  priest's  house,  herself. 


266          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Strange  —  that  his  name  should  come,  just  now,  from  her 
husband's  lips.  The  god  must  be  actually  hovering  over 
them!  Hermione  felt  a  thrill  of  pious  rapture. 

"  By  Apollo  himself !  —  how  the  boy  dances !  "  her  hus- 
band cried  out. 

Under  the  bright,  white  light,  shaded  by  the  drawn  awn- 
ing, in  and  out  among  the  white  columns,  Serapion  was 
indeed  dancing.  As  he  poised  his  body,  first  on  one  foot,  then 
on  another,  pointing  his  steps  in  time  with  the  rhythm  of 
the  war-song  he  was  humming,  he  looked  and  was  the  very 
incarnation  of  symmetrical  grace.  The  slender,  lithe  shape; 
the  supple  muscles,  trained  to  perfect  response  of  any  change 
or  posture;  the  skin,  embrowned,  of  a  beautiful  tone,  and 
already  hard  as  marble,  face  and  limbs  radiant  with  the 
brilliancy  of  blooming  youth  —  it  was  little  wonder  that 
such  a  breathing  statue  of  loveliness,  instinct  with  rhythmic 
motion,  should  have  made  the  whole  household,  now  assem- 
bled under  the  arcades,  break  forth  into  a  paeon  of  rap- 
ture. 

But  all  the  praise  was  not  given  to  Serapion.  Myrto's 
high-strung  mood  had  found  its  vent  in  an  unwonted  mo- 
ment of  self-forgetfulness.  The  ode  on  her  brother's  lips 
had  sent  the  thrill  of  a  musical  impulse  to  burst  into  song 
on  her  own  account. 

Seizing  a  lute  a  slave  had  been  cleaning  and  re-stringing, 
and  had  brought  with  her  into  the  court,  Myrto  struck  a 
few  chords  on  its  silken  strings.  In  an  instant  Serapion  had 
changed  his  own  steps  to  take  hers  —  one  he  had  taught  her 
long  ago. 

"Well  done  —  Myrto,  my  daughter!  "  Critias  cried  out, 
as  both  the  children  swept  onward.  Myrto,  as  she  passed 
her  father,  was  in  full,  sweeping  spring  —  her  head  well 
back,  her  hair  loosened  and  flying,  her  draperies  full  of  wind. 
For  perfection  of  rhythm  her  movements  equalled  her 


A  FAMILY  SCENE  267 

brother's  trained  -step.  In  the  Panathenze  Myrto's  dancing 
in  honour  of  Athena  had  been  greatly  admired. 

Critias  caught  the  lovely  creature  to  him.  For  the  first 
time  since  she  could  remember,  Myrto  felt  her  father's  lips 
upon  her  brow.  Even  after  kissing  her  he  did  not  release 
her.  Holding  her  by  the  shoulders,  he  looked  down  into 
her  averted  eyes,  forcing  them  back  to  meet  his. 

"  You'll  be  a  bride  in  a  thousand,  for  any  young  husband 

—  and  prettier  still  with  six  months'  fuller  growth.     Come 

—  give  me  a  kiss." 

Myrto  felt  as  though  she  should  sink  through  the  floor 
of  the  court.  To  be  noticed  —  and  in  public,  before  every 
one,  and  by  her  father!  When  she  lifted  her  cheek  to  re- 
ceive his  salute,  it  was  as  cold  as  marble. 

The  noon  meal  was  the  most  joyous  that  had  been  eaten 
in  the  Critias  household  for  many  a  day.  Every  one  had  a 
secret  satisfaction  to  hug.  Hermione  had  her  Myrto  back 
again.  Nausicaa  felt  her  grip  tightened  on  Timoleon,  for 
he  was  her  latest  lover ;  Myrto  was  sure  she  could  make  Ion 
love  her  —  and  perhaps  later  —  both  Timoleon  and  Serapion 
might  come  and  visit  them,  in  their  estates  in  Arcadia. 
For,  in  her  innocence,  to  Myrto  such  projects  seemed  as 
easy  as  to  make  figures  with  her  bread,  her  pet  table  habit. 

Critias's  own  satisfaction  was  also  complete.  With  the 
marriage  portion  safe  in  Athena's  Treasury,  he  could  borrow 
as  much  money  as  he  pleased.  He  could  give  two  banquets 
instead  of  one,  during  the  festival  time. 

Clotho,  that  skilled  spinner  of  men's  fates,  was  busy  with 
her  secret,  dark  designs.  As  though  in  sinister  sport,  far 
and  wide  she  had  cast  her  dread  threads.  For  a  Corinthian 
merchant  lay  dying,  and  Maia  would  soon  be  free. 


Chapter  XXIV 

THE   BREATH   OF  MARS 

WITH  his  marriage  postponed  till  mid-winter,  Ion  lived  his 
life  as  never  he  had  lived  it  before.  His  banquets,  cock 
rights,  and  bets  succeeded  each  other  with  a  ruinous  rapidity. 
Never  had  he  so  loved  his  horses,  never  had  he  so  delighted 
in  the  exhilaration  yielded  by  vigorous  athletics.  And  yet 
—  and  yet  —  and  yet  —  something  was  lacking  —  there  was 
a  note  that  could  sing  in  his  soul  and  that  had  sung,  and 
that  now  was  silent.  What  could  it  be,  in  this  luxurious, 
brilliant  Athenian  existence  that  was  lacking? 

A  hundred  times  had  Ion  been  on  the  point  of  journeying 
to  Corinth.  Yet,  never  did  the  shade  fall  that  seemed  a 
feasible  one.  Twice  he  had  sent  Persia,  on  a  special  mis- 
sion, to  Maia;  the  letters  he  bore  were  to  be  delivered  in 
utmost  secrecy.  Persia  had  returned  from  his  last  journey 
with  news  that  sent  Ion's  pulses  to  wild  beating;  Nirias, 
Maia  wrote,  was  dying  and  of  a  mortal  disease.  Not  even 
the  gods,  now,  could  help  him.  Should  he  indeed  die,  then 
Ion  must  be  prepared  to  open  wide  his  arms.  What  home 
for  Maia  was  there  save  there  —  in  the  nest  of  his  love? 
Once  she  was  free,  she  would,  indeed,  fly  to  Athens.  Mean- 
while, she  bade  Ion  pray  to  the  gods  for  patience;  —  she 
needed  the  help  of  prayers.  This  was  "  her  dark  hour." 
The  only  light,  in  this  her  land  of  darkness,  was  the 
"  flashing  fiery  glow  "  of  their  love. 

Such  words  stirred  Ion  to  mingled  emotions.  Maia  he 
desired,  with  all  the  powers  of  his  soul  and  body.  After 

268 


THE  BREATH  OF  MARS  269 

having  known  her,  no  other  woman  could  satisfy,  could 
yield  the  full  of  bliss.  Yet,  did  she  indeed  make  good  her 
promise,  what  would  happen?  He,  alas,  would  no  longer 
be  free!  That  hateful  nuptial  tie  would,  only  too  surely, 
be  irrevocably  tied,  and  within  the  year. 

After  such  reflections,  Ion  would  pour  down  neat  wine, 
to  drown  thought,  at  the  banquets  and  then  swear  because 
even  Bacchus  would  not  bless  him  with  oblivion. 

The  breath  of  Mars,  however,  was  to  bring  Ion  a  fever  of 
forgetfulness  that  the  wine  cup  could  not  yield. 

Ion,  as  well  as  Athens,  was  thrilling  to  the  strongest,  to 
the  most  powerful  of  human  passions.  The  war  madness 
was  upon  the  city.  The  passionate  speeches  of  Nicias  and 
Alcibiades,  that  had  aroused  to  frenzied  excitement  all 
Athens  in  the  assembly,  were  re-told  in  every  court,  farm 
house,  and  shepherd's  huts,  on  the  hillslopes.  Athens  was 
longing  to  rush  onward  to  battle,  as  a  Maenad  to  worship. 
Athena's  mighty  shield,  with  its  sculptured  figures  breathing 
of  slaughter,  and  horror,  and  carnage,  had  no  terrors  for 
this  renewed  youth  of  Athens,  with  its  full  treasuries,  its 
golden  harvests,  its  gymnasia  bursting  with  young  vigorous 
manhood,  and  its  belief  in  its  all-conquering  fleet  and  mighty 
army. 

Ion,  and  all  of  his  set,  were  caught  in  the  sweep  and  fury 
of  the  mounting  madness.  Glaucus,  Ariston,  and  above  all 
others  Timoleon,  each  in  their  different  ways,  were  seized 
with  the  universal  contagion  for  furthering  the  enterprise. 

In  this  tumultuous  sea  of  action  Timoleon  swam,  as  in 
his  true  element.  His  time  and  moment,  he  felt,  were  come. 
The  opportunity  to  prove  to  his  great  leader,  the  value  of  his 
gifts,  and  the  resources  of  his  talents,  he  could  fully,  he 
felt,  at  last,  demonstrate,  after  long  waiting. 

Timoleon  was  a  dozen  men,  in  a  dozen  different  places. 
He  was  in  the  Agora,  early  and  late;  he  haunted  the  porti- 


270          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

coes;  he  could  be  heard  haranguing  an  audience  wherever 
one  was  to  be  gathered. 

Timoleon  had  the  gift  of  true  oratory;  he  caught  the 
flame  of  his  own  skillfully  worked  enthusiasms.  His  words 
sung  eloquently  in  his  own  ears.  He  was  the  first  victim 
of  his  admirably  marshalled  argumentation.  Personal  con- 
viction had  little  to  do  with  his  intensity ;  he  caught  the  glow 
from  his  own  richly  coloured  oratory.  His  enthusiasm  was 
lighted  from  within.  Greed  lured  at  fiery-featured  am- 
bition ;  together  they  fashioned  brilliant  wings  to  Timoleon's 
oratory. 

His  candour,  his  assumed  frankness,  his  knowledge  of  how 
to  play  upon  other  men's  lower  passions  and  greed,  were 
part  of  his  power.  Timoleon,  for  example,  in  the  role  of 
trying  to  please  and  convince  old  men,  was  something  new; 
yet  he  had  thus  won  innumerable  adherents.  When  Nicias' 
smooth,  specious  arguments  were  terrorizing  the  more  timid, 
Timoleon  developed  extraordinary  powers  of  persuasion. 

"  Is  it  Themistocles,  Cimon,  Pericles,  and  his  great  dis- 
ciples —  his  true  ward  —  Alcibiades,  who  are  to  be  heeded  ? 
—  or  is  Nicias  to  be  listened  to,  with  his  womanish,  non- 
interfering  policy?  What  do  ye  wise  old  heads  think  would 
become  of  Athenian  energies,  ambitions,  ideals,  if  pious,  cow- 
ardly Nicias  were  to  rule  our  City?  "  Timoleon's  mocking 
malice  cut  even  deeper  than  his  eloquence. 

"  Nicias  listens  to  soothsayers,  he  is  the  slave  of  magic. 
Alcibiades  puts  his  ear  to  Athens  heart, —  its  beat  and  throb 
and  those  of  his  own  pulse  are  one.  His  trust  is  in  our 
Lady  of  Athens." 

A  group  of  elderly  white  haired  men,  seated  in  a  half- 
moon,  under  the  columns  of  the  gymnasia  listened,  open- 
mouthed  to  Timoleon's  malicious  contrasts. 

"What  a  fighter  thou  art!  my  Timoleon.  If  Greece  be 
not  mistress  of  Sicily  in  a  six  months  time,  'tis  not  because 


271 

thou  art  not  giving  Nicias  uneasy  hours!"  was  Ion's  out- 
burst. 

Timoleon  laughed,  silently,  as  he  glanced  backwards.  He 
could  indulge  in  laughter.  He  had  left  the  old  men  drawing 
diagrams  of  Sicily,  in  the  sand,  with  their  canes. 

Ion  and  Timoleon  left  the  circle  of  these  elderly  citizens. 
Timoleon  having  sown  his  seed,  could  trust  it  to  ripen. 

The  two  young  men  swept  onward,  through  the  columns 
of  the  great  peristyle.  The  disputatious  voices  of  the  phi- 
losophers followed  them,  as  they  passed  into  the  Ephebeion. 

Here  the  familiar  sounds  were  of  another  sort.  There 
was  the  pounding  of  the  strong  fists  on  the  sacks  filled  with 
chaff  —  athletes  practicing  thus  before  beginning  to  wrestle. 
In  the  Conisterium,  sharp  young  voices  were  calling  to  at- 
tendants for  prompt  sprinkling;  —  one  could  hear  the  dash 
of  sand  against  firm,  naked  bodies;  and,  in  the  inner  xyste 

—  in  the  depressed  central  part,  below  the  raised  platforms 

—  the  usual  scene  confronted  Timoleon's  and  Ion's  eyes. 
The  number  of  wrestlers  here  was  amazing,  and  all  were 

in  fine  form.  There  was  scant  space  for  all,  for  the  place 
was  crowded.  There  was  the  sound  of  short,  panting 
breathing;  of  swift  rushes;  of  the  deadly  grip  and  groan,  as 
athletes,  clasped  together  in  tight  coil,  came  to  earth,  with  a 
thud,  continuing  their  contest  on  the  ground.  These  sounds 
were  ever  and  anon  drowned.  For  shouts  and  passionate 
outcries  arose  from  the  crowds,  gathered  thick  under  the  cov- 
ered spaces. 

Eager,  tensely  knit,  were  the  bent  faces  of  the  spectators.  • 
Every  looker-on  had  his  favourite,  in  that  struggling  mass 
of  oiled  and  sanded  bodies.     The  brutal  sport  of  the  pan- 
crationists  delighted  these  Greek  eyes. 

One  athlete  had  his  antagonist's  throat  between  thumb 
and  finger ;  his  mighty  legs  straddled  the  writhing  body. 

"  Choke  him !     Choke  him !     No  mercy.     Remember  he 


272          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

broke  Eudemes's  leg  but  yesterday !  "  cried,  in  savage  voice, 
a  man  close  to  Ion's  shoulder.  The  cry  was  taken  up.  The 
demand  for  cruel  punishment,  became  a  chorus.  A  group 
of  Furies  seemed  yelling  vengeance. 

Timoleon  raised  himself  on  his  tip-toes.  His  keen  eyes 
peering  over  men's  shoulders,  into  the  open  space,  were  fixed, 
with  singularly  intensity,  on  the  swollen  muscles,  on  the 
purplish  face,  and  on  the  convulsive  agonized  motions  of 
the  man  who  was  getting  the  worst  of  the  sport. 

"  Is  not  that  Thrasybulous  ?  "  he  said,  in  an  aside  to  Ion, 
nodding  to  the  mass  that  was  a  man. 

"  The  very  same,"  answered  Ion,  in  an  equally  low  voice. 
This  view  of  his  future  brother-in-law  was  not  one  calcu- 
lated to  enkindle  warmth  of  feeling. 

Ion  gave  a  humourous  side-glance.  "  With  such  an  ath- 
lete in  one's  family,  my  boy  — "  he  began  —  but  he  covered 
the  sentence  with,  "  Come,  let  us  be  off  —  you'll  do  no  talk- 
ing here." 

Timoleon's  smile  was  enigmatic,  as  he  swept  Ion's  shoul- 
der with  his  arm. 

He  proposed,  if  this  war  turned  out  as  he  hoped  it  would, 
to  have  Thrasybulous  placed  in  the  front  of  battle  —  he 
would  pass  the  hint  to  Alcibiades  —  that  particular  member 
of  the  Critias  household  would  be  as  well  left  on  the  deck  of 
a  war  trireme. 

The  mere  thought  of  what  the  war  might  bring  —  union 
with  that  sweet  Myrto  —  and  the  comfort  of  her  dowry, 
warmed  Timoleon.  His  next  words  came  gaily. 

"  Well,  my  Ion,  once  the  war  is  upon  us,  and  such  train- 
ing as  that  will  be  as  useless  as  maiden's  playing  at  ball." 

A  voice  answered,  from  a  near  standing  group,  "  Ah-h  — 
Timoleon,  you  speak  of  the  war  as  though  it  was  indeed 
a  certainty,"  and  Agonides  laughed,  with  light  mockery. 

Timoleon  turned,  squared  himself,  as  he  faced  Agonides, 


THE  BREATH  OF  MARS  273 

with  his  most  alluring  smile.  He  was  careful  to  edge  his 
way  close  to  the  group,  behind  the  speaker.  His  chance  had 
come, —  and  he  closed  with  it.  The  group  clustered  — 
gathered  —  he  had  his  true  audience  at  last. 

The  familiar  arguments  were  gone  over.  Every  point 
bearing  on  the  situation  was  skillfully  elaborated.  Athens 
owed  it  to  herself  —  to  her  allies,  to  fight ;  her  inaction  was 
working  mischief.  Sparta  was  already  presuming  on  Athens' 
inertia.  It  was  high  time  Athens  proved  to  Sparta  —  to 
all  the  world  she  was  as  mighty  as  ever,  could  strike  where 
she  would,  could  hold  and  force  submission.  Any  pretext 
would  serve  to  teach  the  Peloponnesians  that  needed  lesson. 

"  For  the  real  object  of  the  war  is  the  capture  and  con- 
quest of  Sicily." 

The  group  stirred.  The  faces  wore  changed  looks.  Eyes 
sought  eyes  —  half  terrified,  yet  secretly  pleased.  Timo- 
leon's  boldness  was  refreshing.  So  many  had  thought  this 
—  yet  none  —  as  yet,  had  dared  openly  affirm  the  truth. 

Ion  breathed  hard.  He  looked  at  Timoleon  with  new 
admiration.  Timoleon  went  on  — "  The  merchant's  houses 
are  heaped  with  rich  stuffs  and  jewels.  The  city  streets, 
the  theatres,  the  gymnasium,  all  men  say  of  Syracuse,  are 
almost  as  crowded  with  statues  of  the  gods,  as  are  Corinth 
and  Athens.  Not  a  soldier,  not  a  hoplite,  not  even  a  bag- 
gage slave  but  will  come  back  from  the  war  as  rich  as  a 
Persian  satrap. 

"  To  know  as  great  Island,  one  as  rich  and  powerful,  and 
yet  not  ours,  is  surely  humiliation  for  Athens.  As  lords 
of  the  sea,  how  can  we  live  and  yet  know  our  sovereignty 
disputed  ?  —  Set  at  naught  by  these  rude  Sikels?  Surely,  we 
are  entitled,  by  the  very  superiority  of  our  dominion,  to 
demand  and  receive  tribute  from  all  Islands." 

"This,  our  Empire  of  Athens,  O  men  of  Athens!  de- 
mands this  'extension  of  her  power.  How  can  we  hope  to 


274         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

strike  terror  to  Sparta?  how  impress  the  world  except  by 
presenting  fresh  proofs  of  our  power?  Surely,  the  first 
duty  of  the  great,  of  the  strong,  is  to  go  to  the  rescue  of  the 
weak.  For  her  own  good  —  for  the  good  of  the  world,  if 
only  to  bring  peace  where  all  is  discord  —  the  Empire  of 
Athens  should  own  Sicily.  The  distracted  Island  needs  to 
be  owned  and  governed  by  those  who  understand  the  art  of 
ruling  —  by  wise  Athenians  whom  mighty  Pallas  Athena 
guides  and  protects." 

The  clever  Athenian  faces  about  Timoleon  were  aflame. 
The  right  chords  had  been  touched.  Ambition  —  patriot- 
ism —  greed  —  what  more  was  needed  to  stir  men  to  a  war- 
fever? 

Even  those  who  were  of  the  peace-party  showed  dubious, 
doubting  brows.  Dull,  indeed,  it  would  be  to  remain  at 
home,  with  flat  purses,  and  to  witness,  in  bitterness,  the 
return  of  mean  slaves,  of  obscure  contractors,  of  pipers  and 
singers  even,  swollen  with  plunder!  The  prospect  tempted 
the  greatest  lover  of  agreeable  inaction  to  shout  for  war. 

These  flaming  eyes  and  thought-worked  brows  were 
Timoleon's  true  plaudits.  He  had  made  his  stroke.  He 
was  now  bent  on  other  business. 

"  I  go  towards  the  Plain,  my  Ion,  and  where  go  you  ?  " 
he  asked,  with  a  meaning  smile,  as  he  turned  toward  the 
latter. 

"  And  I  to  meet  a  prospective  father-in-law  " —  Ion  an- 
swered, his  eyes  shining  with  laughter.  In  less  than  a 
month  now,  his  marriage  would  come  off,  and  surely  Tim- 
oleon, of  all  his  friends,  should  be  among  the  first  to  be 
advised. 

Ion  could  never  have  believed  the  prospect  of  marrying 
could  make  him  so  merry  —  for  Timoleon's  face  had  lost  its 
glow  —  he  had  taken  on  one  more  familiar.  He  walked 
along  with  something  of  his  old,  supercilious  indifference. 


THE  BREATH  OF  MARS  275 

"And  whom,  pray,  is  the  fortunate  maiden?  Has  your 
father  —  has  the  merchant-king  selected  a  bride?" 

Ion  gave  Timoleon's  somewhat  scornful  features  an 
amused  smile. 

"  It  appears  it  is  rather  the  maiden's  father  who  wishes 
the  match."  And  Ion  felt  a  quick  relish  at  the  thought  of 
his  coming  announcement. 

"  And  this  most  discerning  of  fathers  —  a  wealthy  Piraean 
—  I  presume  ?  "  Timoleon,  for  the  life  of  him,  could  not 
help  a  certain  disdain  tinging  his  tone. 
Ion's  eyes  gleamed. 

"  It  is  an  Athenian,  as  it  happens,  old  man.'* 
"  May  one  learn  his  name?  "    Timoleon's  face  was  now 
pushed  out,  beyond  his  tall  cane.     For  he  had  stopped,  and 
was  facing  Ion. 

Ion  hesitated.     Then  his  eyes  sparkled,  once  again,  with 
mirth.     "Yes  —  if  you  are  discreet.     But  it  is  not  to  be 
talked  about  —  as  yet — " 
"  I  promise  — " 

"  Well  —  it  is  Critias  —  if  you  must  know.  He  has 
promised  his  daughter  Myrto.  Have  you  ever  chanced,  at 
any  of  the  festivals,  to  see  her  ?  "  Ion's  tone,  indifferent 
as  he  tried  to  make  its  accents,  was  full  of  pride. 

The  effect  of  his  announcement  Ion  could  not  possibly 
have  foreseen.  With  a  crash,  Timoleon's  cane  fell  to  the 
ground.  As  he  stooped  to  re-capture  it,  Timoleon  crim- 
soned. 

Ion  eyed  his  friend's  discomfiture  with  amazement.  Timo- 
leon's usually  perfectly  composed  features  were  perceptibly 
disturbed.  His  under-lip  visibly  trembled.  A  pallor  had 
succeeded  the  scarlet  hue.  Never  had  Timoleon  displayed 
such  uncontrolled  feeling  —  save  when  the  dice  had  gone  too 
heavily  against  him  —  in  Ion's  long  years  of  acquaintance. 
Ion  thought  it  best  to  banter. 


276         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

"  Well  —  well  —  and  what  does  all  this  mean  ?  What 
have  you  to  say  —  for  or  against  the  match  —  I  should  like 
to  know !  You  appear  singularly  moved  —  what  has  been 
going  on  in  my  absence  ?  "  Ion's  laughter  was  light.  His 
manly  eyes,  however,  were  now  scanning  his  friend's  face, 
with  keen  shrewdness. 

Timoleon  threw  his  head  back;  he  gave  a  fresh  fling  to 
his  mantle.  "  In  one  sense,  Ion,  I  am  delighted,  of  course. 
It  will  be  a  great  match  —  for  both  of  you." 

"  Well  —  if  you  turn  white  and  red  each  time  you  hear 
of  a  friend's  marriage  —  flushing  and  paling  like  a  girl  — 
all  I  can  say  is — " 

"  What  an  absurdity !  Of  course  I  —  we  —  shall  all  be 
sorry  to  lose  you — " 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  buried  yet,"  Ion  cried  out,  joyously. 

"  No-o,  but  Critias  will  want  to  hurry  the  match,  that 
I  foresee,  and  the  reasons  for  it.  As  for  my  turning  red  — 
Ah-h  —  here  they  come !  "  Timoleon  had  now  entirely  re- 
covered himself.  Yet  his  face  visibly  brightened  as  he  turned 
toward  the  group  of  young  men  whose  slow  saunter  under 
the  great  trees  had  finally  brought  them  close  to  their 
side. 

"  Not  a  word  —  you  understand  —  Timoleon,"  Ion  cried, 
hastily,  as  the  group  came  slowly  towards  them. 

"  Not  a  syllable,"  gravely  responded  Timoleon. 

Yet  he  was  counting  the  hours  before  he  could  possibly 
get  a  message  to  Nausicaa  —  she,  surely,  must  have  known 
something  of  this  or  should  know  — 

Ion,  as  he  smiled  down  at  his  friends,  was  also  saying 
inwardly,  with  conviction:  "There's  more  in  this  than 
he  will  confess  —  I  must  find  out  his  secret.  Ah  — 
Glaucus !  "  he  cried,  "  you've  worn  the  mantle  I  brought  — 
I  see.  Yes  —  it  is  a  fine  shade.  It  becomes  him  amazingly 
—  does  it  not?" 


THE  BREATH  OF  MARS  277 

Glaucus  lifted  languid  eyes  to  the  admiring  gaze  of  his 
followers. 

But  Glaucus  had  brought  news,  and  even  fine  garments 
were  disregarded. 

"  I  say  —  dear  men  —  do  you  remember  that  beauty  — 
the  one  who  came  with  your  father,  Ion,  to  the  Dionysia  — 
and  was  in  the  train  of  two  other  old  men  ?  " 

It  was  Ion's  turn  to  mount  a  flush.  He  could  hardly 
command  his  tongue,  as  he  stammered,  "  Well  —  my  Glau- 
cus —  and  what  new  infidelity  has  my  father  been  commit- 
ting?" 

Above  the  shout  of  the  gay  laughter,  Glaucus,  who  was 
too  interested  to  stammer,  cried  "  The  news  has  nothing  to 
do  with  your  father,  as  yet  —  But,  on  the  contrary,  with 
Manes." 

"  With  Manes !  "  exclaimed  the  young  men,  in  chorus. 
And  now  Ion  was  feeling  his  heart  in  his  throat.  For  it 
was  he  who  had  brought  Manes,  from  the  Isthmus,  to  cos- 
tume the  chorus  for  "  Electra  " —  he  being  choregus,  at  the 
coming  Dionysia.  And  what,  in  the  name  of  all  the  gods 
of  chance,  had  this  chorus-master,  to  do  with  divine  Maia? 

Glaucus  was  presently  telling  them. 

"  Well,  you  see,  those  of  us  who  keep  our  ears  open,  hear, 
in  time  all  we  desire  to  learn.  I  should  never  have  gone 
down  the  shades  in  peace,  had  I  not  had  the  mystery  cleared 
up,  concerning  the  most  beautiful  woman  I  ever  saw.  And 
now  I  know  her  history!  Oh-h  you  needn't  look  so  hun- 
gry —  my  Ion  —  I  intend  to  be  more  generous  than  were 
you  —  for  whatever  your  father  told  you  about  her,  you 
were  both  as  close  as  a  mean  man  with  your  knowledge. 

"  Well  —  I  see  you  are  all  bursting,  and  so  I'll  proceed. 
Manes  and  I  have  been  sitting  this  good  hour,  on  the  steps 
of  the  Theseum.  The  holy  place  made  him  talk.  It  ap- 
pears this  wonderful  creature's  name  is  Maia.  And  of  all 


278         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

wonders,  she  is  Athenian  born.  He  —  Manes  —  of  Corinth 
—  found  her  on  the  night  of  the  festival  of  the  Panathense 
in  our  Ceramicus.  She  was  an  exposed  child.  And  he 
took  her  and  carried  her  to  Corinth.  There  he  trained  her. 
She  became  famous  as  a  flute-player  and  dancer.  That  rich 
old  Nirias,  the  famous  wool  merchant,  you've  all  heard  of 
his  art  collection  —  well,  he  added  a  living  statue  to  his  col- 
lection. He  fell  in  love  with  Maia,  bought,  and  freed  her. 
And  lately,  on  his  death  bed,  he  has  married  her.  And  as 
soon  as  her  house  can  be  sold,  she  is  to  come  to  Athens,  and 
will  live  here." 

The  young  men,  all  save  Ion,  made  a  chorusing  series  of 
remarks.  Some  avowed  they  should  do  their  best  to  be  the 
first  to  meet  as  great  a  heroine,  others  secretly  made  a  vow 
to  marry  her.  Ion  alone  was  silent.  The  news  of  Maia's 
freedom,  and  of  her  approaching  arrival  had  temporarily 
stunned  him. 

The  gates  of  love,  of  happiness  seemed  to  close,  before 
his  very  eyes.  He  could  have  no  more  part  in  this  coming 
of  lovely  Maia  than  if  he  had  been  buried. 

He  turned  from  the  laughing  group  with  a  new  bitter- 
ness in  his  heart,  one  new  to  him.  And  out  of  his  angry 
disgust,  he  poured  out  his  gall  upon  his  father.  "  Oh-h 
father !  father !  why  indeed  could  you  not  leave  me  alone  — 
in  my  happiness?  " 

With  the  tears  smarting  upon  his  lids,  he  went  his  way 
sorrowfully. 

For  Critias  had  intimated  to  Crates  that  the  month  Game- 
lion  was  near,  and  the  time  must  be  set  for  the  bethrothal 
banquet. 


Chapter  XXV 

A  BETROTHAL 

"  MARRY  her  —  the  quicker  the  better !  "  had  been  Her- 
mione's  outburst,  a  few  days  before  Critias  had  last  seen 
Crates. 

Hermione  was  wearied  of  moping  looks  and  listless  ways. 
She  was  at  the  end  of  her  patience.  Myrto,  for  some  weeks, 
had  been,  if  not  ailing,  in  a  state  of  depression  that  had 
taken  her  and  her  mother  as  far  as  Delphi,  that  the  famous 
Castalian  spring  might  be  tried,  as  a  cure  for  lost  spirits, 
and  faded  cheeks. 

Myrto  had  merely  been  passing  from  the  state  of  child- 
hood to  that  of  a  certain  maturity.  The  growing  stage  is 
ever  accompanied  by  pain  of  some  sort.  Myrto  had  learned 
the  meaning  of  suffering.  After  the  first  excitement  of  the 
great  news  of  her  coming  marriage  had  passed,  Myrto,  left 
alone  with  her  thoughts,  had  seen  all  her  life  stretch  out 
before  her  like  a  dreary  waste.  Ion  did  not  really  care 
for  her,  or  for  marriage,  any  more  than  did  she.  How  could 
he,  since  he  did  not  even  know  the  colour  of  her  locks? 
Had  he  been  eager  —  as  was  Timoleon  —  already  she  would 
have  heard  the  nuptial  hymn. 

Ah-h  Timoleon!  'twas  he  that  had  wrought  upon  simple 
Myrto's  heart,  setting  all  its  tender  chords  to  quick  vibra- 
tion, and  to  make  marriage  with  Ion  seem  a  closing  of  all 
gates  opening  upon  happiness.  For  Timoleon  had  come  not 
once,  but  again  and  again  to  the  garden  wall.  Myrto  had 
been  given  a  greater  freedom,  since  her  marriage  was  a  fixed 
fact.  She  was  allowed  to  walk  in  the  garden,  could  even 
sit  there,  with  her  needle,  and  sew,  with  only  the  birds  for 

279 


28o         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

company.  Her  guilty  meetings  with  Timoleon,  after  the 
betrothal  banquet  had  been  set  as  far  away  as  Gamelion  — 
these  clandestine  talks  had  been  more  and  more  frequent. 
Myrto  had  supposed  Timoleon  aware  of  her  coming  mar- 
riage. Finding  him  still  in  ignorance  of  the  hateful  doom, 
Myrto,  each  time  Timoleon 's  garland  had  been  flung  across 
the  garden  wall,  had  summoned  her  courage  to  tell  him  she 
was  no  longer  free.  Then  the  music  of  those  thrilling  love- 
notes —  voiced  by  Timoleon's  ardent  utterance,  made  con- 
fession die  upon  her  lip.  To  hear  Timoleon  whisper  pas- 
sionate phrases,  and  to  live  on  the  secret  ecstasy  of  those 
outbursts,  melodiously  singing  in  her  ears  like  celestial  music 
—  to  continue  to  hear  Timoleon  speak  thus,  across  the  gar- 
den wall  —  Myrto  felt  she  would  face  death  itself. 

The  guarding  of  as  great  a  secret  had  brought  its  own 
punishment.  Myrto,  living  in  constant  dread  of  discovery, 
and  her  love  for  Timoleon  having  grown  to  a  mounting 
madness,  the  child's  health  had  suffered.  The  going  to 
Delphi  had  been  almost  a  boon.  At  least  once  away  from 
Athens,  she  would  not  be  torn  by  a  hundred  fears,  dreads, 
and  the  ever-pursuing  thought  that  each  day  that  dawned 
brought  her  marriage  nearer  —  this  her  hateful  doom  might 
be  forgotten. 

Delphi's  sacred  spring,  and  still  more  the  great  splendour 
of  Delphi  itself,  had  given  a  fresh  zest  to  life,  and  had  con- 
sequently brought  back  the  roses  to  Myrto's  cheeks. 

But  once  the  Dipylon  Gate  in  sight,  and  Myrto  drooped, 
as  though  struck  by  some  sudden  blight. 

Hermione  had  noted  the  change  with  a  sinking  heart. 
She  had  so  counted  on  the  familiar  spectacle  of  this  coming 
up  to  Athens  to  work  the  perfect  cure!  And  here  was 
Myrto  showing  the  old  dreaded  pallor  beneath  her  veil, 
and  no  more  interest  in  this  home-coming  than  if  she  had 
been  going  to  slaves'  quarters! 


A  BETROTHAL  281 

"  See  —  dear  Myrto  —  there  goes  a  newly  made  bride  — 
that  party  over  yonder  —  in  the  bright  cart !  "  cried  Her- 
mione,  trying  to  awaken  some  show  of  interest  in  the  girl. 

Myrto  surveyed  the  hill-folk  wedding  party  with  dejected 
air. 

"  Is  not  that  ass  coming  towards  them  laden  with  pars- 
ley? 'Tis  a  bad  sign,  'tis  said;"  and  Myrto  gathered  her 
veil  the  closer  about  her. 

"  I  know  not  —  I  care  not !  —  you  are  impossible  to 
please !  "  the  mother  burst  forth,  in  sudden,  passionate  anger. 
"  Any  other  girl  who  was  going  up  to  Athens  as  the  bride 
of  as  distinguished  an  Olympian  —  to  say  nothing  of  the 
place  Ion  has  won  in  the  political  world  —  would  be  mad 
with  delight.  Instead,  one  would  think  you  were  on  your 
way  to  a  funeral  —  to  hear  dirges  instead  of  marriage 


songs 


As  the  town  chariot  rolled  through  Athens'  crooked, 
streets,  Hermione's  wrathful  impatience  grew  and  was  in- 
tensified. The  hopes  of  months  were  blown  to  the  winds. 
Hermione  having  now  become  reconciled  to  this  marriage, 
had  indeed  counted  upon  the  excitement  as  upon  the  vibrat- 
ing influences  of  the  new  life  that  lay  before  Myrto,  to  win 
back  the  child's  lost  health,  and  her  lovely  rapturous  quality, 
that  had  been  like  a  bird's  perpetual  song  in  the  house. 

It  was  she,  therefore,  who  incited  Critias  to  hasten  the 
wedding.  "  Yes  marry  her  —  I  say !  and  the  quicker  the 
better!" 

"  You  —  you  think  then  —  that  the  child  is  in  fitting  con- 
dition for  marriage?"  To  his  wife's  amazement  Critias 
presented  confused  looks  and  blinking  eyes.  Hermione  could 
scarce  believe  her  ears.  Critias  —  to  consider  a  woman  — 
and  that  woman  —  his  own  child ! 

Critias  appeared,  indeed,  quite  guiltily  sensible  of  his  error. 
His  throb  of  paternal  weakness  had  surprised  no  one  —  not 


282          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

even  his  wife  —  more  than  it  had  himself.  Myrto's  pallor 
and  the  pathos  of  her  young  bent  shoulders  were  to  blame. 
Confound  women !  their  stupid  ways  were  always  making  the 
wisest  of  men  listen  to  soft  promptings.  Hermione  was  in 
the  right  —  let  marriage  be  given,  as  a  corrective,  to  all  this 
nonsense.  The  fondest  of  fathers  could  not  conceive  of  a 
better  restorative  to  health  than  the  closed  doors  of  the 
thalamos.  To  slough  off  responsibility,  on  another  man's 
shoulders,  was  to  Critias  the  best  possible  method  of  reliev- 
ing the  tension  of  the  rarely-touched  chord  of  parental  anx- 
iety. 

The  plans  for  the  marriage  were  soon  speedily  outlined. 
"  Have  everything  on  the  grandest  possible  scale,"  Critias 
cried.  "  Let  the  betrothal  banquet  make  Athens  ring.  I'll 
hire  some  famous  singers  —  we'll  have  the  best  dancers  Cor- 
inth has  trained  —  for  our  male  guests,  after  the  ladies  have 
retired." 

Critias  felt  a  mounting  glow  of  pleasure,  as  he  gave  his 
commands.  Few  things  gave  him  such  joy  as  the  ordering 
of  costly  banquets.  This  first  marriage  in  the  family,  and 
of  his  only  daughter,  to  Ion  —  now  the  most  popular  young 
man  in  the  city  —  one  whom  the  noblest  might  be  proud  to 
have  as  a  son-in-law  —  this  was  the  greatest  festival  oppor- 
tunity of  Critias'  life.  He  would  empty  the  markets,  he 
would  send  direct  to  Euboea  —  to  their  estates  —  for  eggs 
of  the  pea- fowl,  for  boars'  livers ;  —  for  fruits  he  would  send 
to  Italy  —  the  wines  in  his  cellars  could  furnish  a  dozen 
wedding  feasts. 

Hermione  listened  —  and  this  time  with  a  smile.  She, 
also,  took  pride  in  having  the  wedding  festivities  as  magnifi- 
cent as  they  could  be  made.  Diligently  she  noted  on  her 
tablets,  her  husband's  elaborate  suggestions.  Before  she 
closed  the  list,  she  lifted  her  head  —  a  quick  thought  — 
an  inspiration  had  come  to  her.  It  seemed  easy  now  to  ask 


A  BETROTHAL  283 

anything  of  Critias.  For  the  first  time  in  years  they  were 
wholly  of  one  mind. 

Hermione's  longing  to  ask  this  hoped-for  boon  of  Critias 
was  prompted  by  the  common  feminine  instinct  to  relive, 
in  a  daughter's  marriage,  her  own  short-lived,  connubial  emo- 
tional excitement.  The  flicker  of  those  early  nuptial  rap- 
tures flared,  in  brief  shining,  across  Hermione's  now  pallid 
matrimonial  sky.  She  longed,  therefore,  the  more  to  pro- 
long the  sensational  moment.  The  intensity  of  her  desire 
lent  her  courage.  For  that  which  she  was  about  to  ask  was 
a  daring  innovation. 

"  Suppose,  dear  husband,  we  offer  our  guests  a  rarity  in- 
deed —  suppose  —  before  the  banquet  —  you  let  the  dancer 
come  in,  to  us  —  in  to  us  women  ?  We  women  are  so  rarely 
entertained." 

Hermione's  pleading  eyes  and  her  soft  blush  made  her 
husband  look  at  her  with  surprised  eyes.  This  novel  excite- 
ment fired  Hermione's  beauty  to  a  youthful  glow.  Or  was 
it  some  weeks  in  the  country  that  had  made  the  roses  bloom 
anew  on  cheeks  that  were  full  and  firm  —  full  and  rounded 
as  Alcamenes'  famous  Aphrodite  —  as  hers  of  the  gar- 
dens! 

With  his  tired  eyes  on  Hermione's  radiant  skin,  Critias 
cried,  to  his  wife's  joyed  amazement  —  "  Capital !  Capital ! 
The  notion  is  a  good  one.  It  will  set  the  women's  tongues 
to  wagging.  And,"  he  added,  for  Hermione's  beautiful 
eyes  had  deepened  in  colour  —  and  he  suddenly  remembered 
how  Phidias  had  admired  their  colour,  "  By  the  white  feet 
of  the  Graces!  but  you  shall  have  the  andron.  In  your 
woman's  court,  a  professional  worthy  the  name,  could  scarce 
trip  her  steps." 

It  brought  no  surprise  to  Critias'  self-complacent  sense  of 
large  generosity  to  have  Hermione  spring  upward,  that  she 
might  fling  her  glad  arms  about  his  neck.  No  expression  of 


284         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

gratitude  from  a  wife  could  be  considered  excessive  rendered 
to  as  fond  and  indulgent  a  husband  and  father! 

A  few  days  later  Critias  brought  Ion  to  his  house. 
For  the  first  time  the  young  man  made  one  of  the  family 
circle.  He  was  thus  informally  made  acquainted  with  his 
future  bride's  household. 

Myrto,  of  course,  was  not  present.  Neither  could  Nau- 
sicaa  manage  to  make  her  appearance.  Her  husband 
brought  several  excuses.  Hermione  could  have  her  choice, 
among  so  many,  of  the  true  one.  The  agreeable  flutter 
Hermione  herself  was  experiencing  left  no  room  for  her 
usual  bitterness  of  distrust  —  where  Nausicaa  was  concerned. 
She  was  in  a  transport  of  joy,  of  delight,  a  transport  dashed 
with  a  certain  agreeable  awe  of  her  impressive  son-in- 
law. 

Ion  had  changed.  A  new  dignity,  an  air  of  composure 
made  his  strength  and  beauty  doubly  effective.  His  greet- 
ings to  Hermione  —  to  Thrasybulous  —  his  deference  to- 
wards Critias  were  in  perfect  taste.  They  were  also  as  cold 
as  the  snows  on  Mount  Olympus.  He  talked  well  and 
easily  of  all  things  —  of  nothing.  He  did  not  forget  there 
was  a  stately,  nobly-born  mother-in-law  to  please. 

"  Your  sitting-room  has  a  delightful  exposure,"  Ion  re- 
marked, as  he  leant,  with  perfect  grace,  on  the  couch  to  the 
right  of  Hermione's  thrones,  "  and  the  tinting  of  the  col- 
umns is  agreeable  to  the  eyes."  Ion's  cool  gaze  swept  col- 
umns, the  palms,  the  birds  in  their  cages,  and  then  returned 
to  make  the  tour  of  the  pastas  —  of  its  hangings,  and  of 
Critias's  collection  of  Egyptian  deities. 

"  Yes  —  when  Critias  first  proposed  to  follow  Alcibiades' 
example,  and  paint  the  courts,  I  confess  I  was  angry.  It 
seemed  a  waste  of  drachmae.  Now,  neither  Myrto  nor  I 
could  endure  our  town  life  without  these  pleasant  colours 
about  us."  Hermione  had  purposely  mentioned  Myrto. 


A  BETROTHAL  2^5 

She  kept  her  gaze  steadily  fixed  on  Ion's  handsome  face,  as 
he  bent  forward. 

Ion  was  in  the  act  of  leaning  over  his  couch.  He  trans- 
ferred a  particularly  spicy  morsel  — a  bit  of  sheep's  head 
seasoned  with  caraway  seeds  —  to  his  lips,  without  hurry. 
He  finished  the  delicacy  before  he  made  answer. 

'  Then  —  it  becomes  me  —  I  see  —  to  fill  my  town  house 
with  painters  —  and  at  once.  Your  daughter  must  not  miss 
accustomed  luxuries,"  and  Ion  drank  his  wine,  with  un- 
moved composure.  After  setting  down  the  golden  goblet, 
he  changed  the  subject,  almost  immediately;  he  led  the  talk 
on  to  the  universal  topic  —  to  the  war  news.  He  and 
Thrasybulous  were  soon  deep  in  the  intricacies  of  the  newest 
fashions  in  armour. 

Hermione,  at  Ion's  calm  answer,  had  all  but  bounded 
from  her  chair.  "  You  daughter ! "  Not  even  to  call 
Myrto  by  name  —  now  that  the  right  was  his!  He  might 
thus  have  spoken  of  the  unknown  dead  —  his  tone  could  not 
have  been  more  indifferent.  And  this  coldness  and  distance 
from  a  merchant's  son  —  one  whom  it  was  an  immense  con- 
descension to  receive  into  the  family! 

Hermione  felt  her  hurt  pride,  her  wounded  vanity  prick- 
ing her  to  uncontrollable  anger.  Olympian  victor  though 
he  was ;  and  handsome  —  clever  master  of  himself  as  he  was 
proving  himself,  Hermione  vowed,  as  her  wrath  warmed  her 
quick  thought,  she  would  yet  teach  this  cool  son-in-law  a 
lesson  in  humility.  He  should  be  brought  to  a  realizing 
sense  of  the  honour  conferred  upon  him.  He  should  go  to 
the  altar  with  quaking  knees  and  a  bounding  heart. 

All  mothers  worthy  the  name,  believe  in  the  conquering 
power  of  a  marriageable  daughter.  Hermione  was  a  true 
believer.  She  felt  Ion  had  only  to  see  Myrto,  to  speak  with 
her,  though  it  were  but  once,  and  he  would,  he  must  fall 
at  her  feet,  as  he  might  below  the  knees  of  a  divinity. 


286         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Hermione  matured  a  quick,  bold  plan.  Its  daring  made 
her  tremble  —  yet  she  would  dare.  There  was  really  only 
Critias'  displeasure  to  dread.  And  in  these  pleasant  days, 
Critias  was  almost  a  lover  again.  Hermione  felt  she  could 
do  with  him  as  she  pleased.  No  one  else  would  know. 
Even  Asia  was  gone  to  the  Piraeus  —  to  see  to  the  bringing 
to  town  of  the  costly  Coan  bridal  robes.  The  coast  there- 
fore was  cleared  for  action.  Thank  the  blessed  gods  of 
Hymen,  prying  hateful  Nausicaa  had  been  kept  at  home  — 
or  abroad  —  it  mattered  not  —  nothing  mattered  now,  since 
Hermione  was  as  agreeably  hatching  out  her  plot  as  a  proud 
hen  warms  the  stir  of  life  in  an  egg. 

The  war-talk  was  in  full  heat,  as  the  meal  came  to  a 
close.  The  libations  were  duly  poured.  Thrasybulous 
pled  an  immediate  engagement  at  the  Lyceum,  to  see  a 
young  foreigner  box.  Critias  sauntered  towards  the  court 

—  he  wished  a  last  word  with  his  son.     The  chance  for 
Hermione  to  act  had  come. 

Hermione  swept  quickly  to  Ion's  side.  She  ventured  to 
lay  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  The  gesture  was  full  of  timid 
grace  —  of  womanly  dignity.  There  was  pride  as  well  as 
the  sweetness  of  giving  in  the  noble  face. 

"  Ion  —  my  son  that  is  to  be  —  I  see  you  are  to  be 
trusted.  Myrto  —  in  less  than  a  turn  of  the  glass  will  be 
yonder  —  in  the  garden.  Let  none  see  you  —  I  will  keep 
guard." 

Ion's  reserve  fell  from  him.  With  a  start  of  surprise  his 
strong  palm  fell  upon  Hermione's.  The  two  hands  clasped 

—  impulsively  —  irresistibly.     What  a  noble  lady  it  was  — 
this  Hermione !     What  a  strange  —  an  unacccountable  per- 
mission was  this  —  to  have  even  brief  speech  with  Myrto, 
before  marriage.     Yet  the  action  —  the  impulse  was  surely 
flattering.     Ion  rose  to  the  height  of  the  moment,  and  the 
more  easily  because  the  prospect  of  meeting  his  prospective 


A  BETROTHAL  287 

bride  either  before  or  after  marriage  had  no  power  whatever 

—  he  felt  bitterly  —  to  stir  a  heart-throb. 

Yet  Ion's  eyes  met  the  anxious,  questioning  mother-look 
with  manly  courage.  "  Dear  lady  —  you  honour  me,  in- 
deed. Believe  me  —  I  appreciate  such  distinction.  I  shall 
pray  to  Hymen  to  bless  our  union.  I  shall  try  to  love  her 

—  your  Myrto  shall  not  be  made  unhappy." 

The  simple  strength  of  Ion's  words,  their  candid  avowal, 
free  from  all  dissembling,  won  Hermione's  moved  heart. 
She  leant  towards  the  young  man.  In  broken,  disjointed 
sentences  she  poured  forth  her  fond  tears,  hopes,  and  the 
weight  of  her  anguish. 

"  O  —  be  gentle  —  be  kind !  Your  looks  win  one  to  trust 
you.  Myrto  is  indeed  a  lovely  maiden  —  no  man  can  fail 
to  love  her  —  once  she  is  known.  Only  —  make  excuses  — • 
be  soft.  She  is  not  herself  "  (Hermione  dared  not  avow  the 
truth  —  men,  all  men,  put  such  exaggerated  emphasis  on  a 
woman's  health) ,  "  she  has  not  been  since  —  since  —  she  — 

Hermione  stopped  short.  She  drew  away  with  a  sense 
of  guilt  from  Ion.  She  had  heard  her  husband's  step  along 
the  arcade. 

Ion  swept  her  a  re-assuring  glance.  "  I  shall  be  here  — 
at  the  appointed  time.  You  may  imagine  my  eagerness," 
Ion  managed  to  send  a  glow  to  his  eyes. 

Still  he  could  not  warm  his  voice.  But  Hermione  smiled, 
with  tender  sweetness.  If  she  missed  the  true  heat  of  long- 
ing in  his  words,  she  showed  it  not. 

Critias  linked  his  arm  in  Ion's ;  together  they  passed  into 
the  andronitis,  for  an  uninterrupted  talk. 


Later  on,  in  the  pastas,  Hermione  was  making  full  con- 
fession.    Critias,  who  believed  his  guest  gone,  heard  with 


288          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

amazement  that  he  was  without,  was  actually  in  the  garden 
—  and  —  but  the  rest  was  too  overwhelming  to  be  believed. 

Critias  stood  over  his  wife.  He  raised  hands  that  were 
shaking  with  anger.  His  eyes  were  terrible  to  face.  He 
was  taking  the  matter  far  more  seriously  than  Hermione 
had  conceived  possible. 

"  And  you  tell  me  this  —  with  calm  lips  —  that  the  two 
are  actually  together — in  broad  daylight  —  and  talking?" 

Hermione  dared  clasp  her  husband's  agitated  hands  in 
hers.  She  soothed  him  —  her  words  came  easily.  To  her 
delight  she  saw  a  softening  look  come  into  his  eyes  —  at  her 
touch. 

"  Surely  dear  husband,  'tis  better  they  should  meet  in  day- 
time than  at  night." 

She  sent  a  meaning,  laughing  eye  upwards.  Both  laughed. 
Peace  thus  made,  Hermione  went  on  with  her  persuasive  ar- 
guments. 

Surely  Myrto's  condition  warranted  any  experiment.  Her 
whole  future,  as  well  as  her  present  state  of  depression, 
might  be  influenced,  and  mightily,  by  as  extraordinary  a 
measure.  She,  Hermione  and  Critias  had  had  just  such  a 
wonderful  adventure  —  Hermione  reminded  her  husband  — 
with  a  blush  as  virginal  on  her  matronly  cheeks  as  the  one 
he  had  surprised  on  her  lovely  young  face  two  days  before 
marriage  —  years  before.  Did  he  not  remember  how  they 
had  been  allowed  to  meet,  in  the  garden  —  and  to  talk,  for 
half  a  shade?  And  —  surely  it  had  had  no  evil  results  — 
this  innovation.  Her  dear  mother  had  been  wise  when  she 
courageously  reverted  to  better  —  to  more  primitive  —  to 
almost  Homeric  ways. 

Critias  nodded,  as  he  blinked  his  eyes.  He  was  experi- 
encing some  difficulty  in  placing  the  incident.  He  had  met 
so  many  —  in  gardens  —  since  that  far  away  time.  And 
he  had  kissed  so  many! 


A  BETROTHAL  289 

Solely  from  habit,  doubtless,  he  bent  now,  to  kiss  his 
wife.  Yet  she  was  as  pretty  as  any  in  that  long  procession 
of  women  —  and  as  young,  he  vowed.  Her  sojourn  in  the 
country  had  certainly  improved  her  looks. 

As  for  this  matter  of  the  young  people's  meeting,  before 
marriage,  that,  after  all,  was  well  enough,  Critias  conceded, 
in  his  present  mollified  mood.  Whatever  they  —  two  heads 
of  the  proudest  Athenian  families  approved  —  and  whatever 
Hermione's  mother  had  done  —  was  surely  wise.  Such  a 
fashion  might  be  wisely  revived  indeed  —  better  marriages 
might  come  about,  were  young  people  to  know  each  other, 
before  marriage. 

"But  not  Spartan  ways  —  O  dear  no!  —  not  Spartan 
liberties !  "  Critias  cried  out,  in  virtuous  horror,  his  hands 
uplifted,  repelling  the  dreadful  image  of  Spartan  marital  in- 
decencies. "  And  mind,  you  are  not  to  let  Asia  scent  this 
novelty  —  I've  no  mind  to  have  Athens  ringing  with  it." 

When  Ion  came  in  from  the  garden,  flushed,  with  a  new 
glow  in  his  face,  Hermione  swept  her  husband  a  triumphant 
look.  How  the  plan  had  worked!  Here  was  Ion  with  a 
bridegroom's  flush  on  his  face. 

With  true  delicacy  Ion  made  no  reference  to  his  walk  in 
the  garden,  save  to  say,  with  infinite  tact :  — 

"  Hermione  was  good  enough  to  let  me  see  your  peach 
trees  in  blossom.  I  have  plucked  a  branch  —  as  you  see." 
With  dancing  eyes  he  showed  a  thickly  grouped  branch  of 
pink  buds.  "  I  shall  carry  it  home  with  me  —  to  remind 
me  of  the  bloom  I  found  —  and  the  promise  of  youth  I  carry 
with  me." 

Nothing  Ion  had  said  had  so  delighted  Hermione.  His 
manners  were  perfect  —  as  perfect  as  had  been  her  ruse  for 
firing  love's  flame.  She  could  have  clasped  him  to  her  heart, 
then  and  there. 

But  Ion  was  being  borne  rapidly  away  by  Critias.     The 


290         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

latter  was  proving  his  joy  in  the  success  of  his  wife's  ven- 
turesome plan,  by  pouring  out  a  flood  of  words. 

Before  the  andron  door  closed,  shutting  the  two  out, 
Hermione  caught  Ion's  words. 

"  Yes  —  yes  —  I  promise  to  speak  to  Manes.  He  is  cer- 
tain to  know  of  some  new  dancer.  Yes  —  yes  —  I  am  en- 
tirely of  your  mind.  Let  the  banquet  be  set  for  a  week 
from  to-morrow." 

Myrto  also  had  heard.  She  had  drifted  to  the  pastas. 
She  held  her  dog  in  her  arms.  She  stood  for  a  moment  quite 
still,  as  though  to  digest  the  true  meaning  of  the  sentence. 

Hermione  had  now  her  arms  about  her  darling.  Half- 
laughing,  half-sobbing,  the  two  clasped  each  other.  With  a 
sharp  protesting  bark,  Myrto's  Maltese  pet  escaped  death 
only  by  a  quick  bounding  to  earth. 

"My  darling — darling  love  —  is  all  well?"  asked  Her- 
mione, holding  Myrto's  face  between  her  hands,  to  scan, 
with  strained  eyes,  the  lovely  features. 

Myrto's  cheek  wore  the  first  roses  of  the  season.  Surely 
'twas  maiden  modesty  made  the  eyes  droop  —  the  heavy 
lashes  sweep  the  rose  bloom  — 

"You  are  right,  dear  mother.  He  is  kind  and  tender  — 
he  will  let  me  have  my  dog — " 

And  Myrto  stooped  to  recapture  her  pet. 

Surely  her  voice  had  a  new  note  —  the  old  gay  tremor 
was  in  the  sweet  tones,  as  she  asked,  shyly,  "  And  the 
betrothal  —  mother  —  did  we  hear  aright  —  Is  it  indeed  to 
be  so  soon  ?  " 

Hermione  pressed  her  darling  close,  as  she  choked  a  fresh 
sob. 

"  Yes  —  In  a  week  —  beloved  —  a  short  week !  And 
how  are  we  ever  to  accomplish  all  there  is  to  be  done  ?  " 


Chapter  XXVI 

THE  DANCER 

A  WEEK  later  the  dancer  had  swung  into  the  middle  of  the 
court  with  a  step  so  light  she  stood  before  her  audience,  ere 
they  were  fully  conscious  of  her  presence. 

The  ladies,  seated  within  the  arcades,  stared,  emitted  a 
few  amazed  ejaculations,  and  then  the  hum  and  buzz  of 
women's  voices  rilled  the  peristyle. 

All  were  now  unveiled ;  all  were  in  full  splendour  of  fes- 
tival array.  Golden  fillets,  studded  with  pearls  adorned 
dyed  locks,  whose  owners  had  painted  their  faces  to  match 
the  youth  of  their  tresses.  Sunken  cheeks,  wrinkled  eyes 
and  hands  ribboned  with  blue  veins,  gave  to  all  eyes  the 
hidden  secret  of  age.  Some  were  fat,  others  lean ;  few  sat  or 
reclined  with  grace  or  dignity.  The  seal  of  their  narrow, 
contracted  lives  was  stamped  upon  all.  These  were  indeed 
the  faces  of  imprisoned  women. 

The  dancer's  verdict  might  almost  have  been  read,  by 
clever  insight,  in  her  expressive  face.  This  assemblage  of 
women  —  the  ladies  so  jealously  guarded  in  the  prison  of 
the  gynseconitis ! —  what  a  mean  cradle  for  a  great  race! 
Yet  these  meaningless  faces  before  her,  these  contracted- 
browed,  these  childish-lipped  women  were  the  mothers  of 
those  mighty  Athenians  whose  prowess  and  intellectual 
achievements  made  them  the  first  power  in  the  world ! 

Restless,  eager,  excited,  the  audience  was  not  yet  sub- 
dued to  attentive  calm.  These  Athenian  ladies  were  noisy, 
rebellious;  the  buzz  of  their  chatter  and  gossip  must  be 
stilled  before  she  could  begin  her  performance. 

291 


292          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

The  luminous  eyes,  for  a  single  instant,  caught  Iler- 
mione's  gaze.  And  the  two  women,  as  each  looked  into 
the  other's  deep  orbs,  experienced  the  shock  of  communicated 
emotion.  Hermione  visibly  paled,  she  felt  her  heart  wildly 
flutter.  Her  hands  clutched  at  the  inlaid  lion's  head  of 
her  thronos,  as  her  startled  cry  burst  from  her. 

"  Why  — 'tis  she  —  surely  —  'tis !  " — 

"Whom?  Ah-h  —  so  you  have  seen  her  before?  And 
yet  you  promised  us  a  novelty !  "  Hermione's  nearest  neigh- 
bor cried,  in  a  hurt  tone,  as  though  her  hostess  had  done  her 
an  injury  in  palming  off  a  second-rate  article. 

Hermione  regained,  immediately,  her  stately  calm.  She 
resettled  herself  among  her  cushions.  "  Be  assured  you  have 
not  been  deceived,"  she  answered,  her  lips  curving  with 
gentle  scorn  at  her  guest's  unconscious  impertinence.  "  She 
is  as  new  to  me  —  as  to  Athens  —  I  merely  thought  to 
have  discovered  a  resemblance  to  —  to  some  one  I  knew." 

Hermione's  second  glance  had  re-assured  her.  Lovely  as 
was  the  being  on  whom  most  eyes  were  now  fixed,  she  was 
assuredly  not  the  Corinthian  of  the  Dionysia.  That  lovely 
shape  was  slimmer  —  of  more  girlish  grace.  Beautiful  as 
were  the  face  and  figure  of  this  Corinthian,  her  lines  were 
fuller,  the  look  of  experience  was  more  complete,  while  her 
hair  alone  would  have  proved  to  Hermione  the  folly  of  her 
wild  surmise.  The  girl  she  had  seen  at  the  Dionysia,  a 
year  ago,  had  tresses  the  very  shade  of  Myrto's  bright 
gold.  These  hyacinthine  locks  were  beautiful  indeed,  but 
they  crowned  a  stranger. 

Quieted,  at  ease  in  her  mind,  Hermione  settled  herself 
back  into  the  curve  of  her  deep  chair.  For  the  dancer,  she 
saw,  was  sending  her  own  eyes  abroad,  as  though,  true 
artist  that  she  seemed,  to  compel  her  audience  to  silence  ere 
she  began  her  poses. 

A  sharpened  look  of  pain,  had,  indeed,  lined  the  dancer's 


THE  DANCER  293 

face,  for  an  Instant's  transient  passing,  as  she  had  caught 
sight  of  her  hostess's  moved  face.  Then  the  spasm  of  feeling 
was  mastered.  The  Corinthian  had  given  a  fresh  draping 
to  her  chiton.  When  she  lifted  her  eyes  from  the  folds  of 
her  gown,  she  was  mistress  of  face  and  of  every  gesture. 

A  mighty  buzzing  filled  the  court.  Even  with  the  dancer 
standing,  waiting,  ready  to  begin  her  poses,  these  chattering, 
gossiping  tongues  could  not  lose  a  chance  of  uttering  the 
last  word.  The  waiting  artist  came  in  for  her  share  of 
candid  airing  of  private  opinion,  generously  shared  with  all 
who  were  willing  to  listen. 

"  Well,  for  my  part,  I  don't  see  that  she  is  such  a  won- 
der. Her  skin  is  fair,  I  admit  that  "  — 

"  Oh-h,  that  hyacinthine  shade  of  hair  will  turn  any  skin 
white." 

"You  are  right,  when  I  wore  that  shade,  my  husband 
gave  me  all  the  embroidered  chitons  I  wanted." 

"  Oh-h  —  husbands  are  always  the  same  —  old  or  young. 
You  please  their  eyes,  and  you  please  them.  Men  have  only 
two  senses  —  sight  and  taste.  Fill  their  stomachs  and  — " 

"  Do  look  at  those  tapestries !  Isn't  Hermione  lucky  to 
have  a  husband  who  knows  how  to  spend  her  money!  Such 
a  man  as  Critias  is  a  gift  of  the  gods  to  an  heiress.  As  for 
mine,  he  pulls  the  purse  strings  as  tight  as  though  "  — 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know  —  you've  told  me  a  thousand  times  of 
his  mean  ways.  But  don't  lose  sight  of  those  figures  yon- 
der. They  aren't  woven  —  they  are  alive!  And  that  mass 
of  golden  goblets,  shirring  in  the  sun  —  Ah-h,  we'll  have  a 
grand  feast!  " 

The  lady's  eyes  and  those  of  her  companion  sent  curious, 
excited  glances  beyond  the  court,  into  the  decorated  hall. 
The  deepening  gold  of  the  afternoon  sunlight  smote  the  thick 
array  of  golden  ewers  and  goblets,  already  placed  on  the 
small  tables,  set  before  the  lounges;  on  the  silver  and  gold 


294         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

plate;  on  the  costly  coverings,  of  cushions  and  klinai,  and  on 
the  rich  tapestries.  The  long  garlands,  looped  from  be- 
tween grinning  masks,  that  swung  high,  that  a  sculptor 
might  have  taken  as  a  model  for  an  altar's  decoration,  were 
admiringly  surveyed. 

The  pinch-mouthed  lady  withdrew  her  gaze.  She  gave 
a  somewhat  vicious  twist  to  her  diplois  that  mercifully 
covered  a  vast  unlovely  expanse  of  formless  flesh.  The 
thought  of  how  long  it  might  be  before  her  own  and  only 
daughter  might  be  sitting  as  bride  at  a  betrothal  banquet, 
made  Myrto's  luck  evoke  just  critical  comment.  Her  tones 
were  biting,  as  she  went  on  — 

"  This  Ion,  now,  everyone  is  talking  of  —  he's  rich  enough 
I  admit,  to  make  any  mother  grieve  that  he's  been  caught, 
even  if  he  be  a  ship-merchant's  son.  But  really,  the  way 
some  people  run  after  money  —  I  call  it  in  the  worst  of 
taste  —  grasping  —  avaricious !  " 

"  O !  the  rich  always  run  after  riches.  'Tis  the  way  of 
the  world  to  long  for  increase.  Ah-h  —  look.  Keep  quiet, 
can't  you?  Your  ceaseless  chatter  scrapes  the  ear.  See! 
the  dancer  is  beginning  to  take  a  graceful  pose." 

"  She's  been  long  enough  about  it  —  I  must  say !  " 

The  dancer  had,  indeed,  taken  an  effective  pose.  She 
had  lifted  her  bared  arms,  her  pink  palms  outermost. 

The  dancer,  with  swift  grace,  now  swung  her  volumious 
draperies  round  and  round."  As  the  billowy  mass  circled 
about  her,  her  face  was  seen  to  change.  A  dawning  look  of 
mingled  terror  and  awe  transformed  its  beauty  to  the 
rigidity  of  a  tragic  mask.  To  all  she  showed  this  stricken 
face.  Then,  with  incredible  swiftness,  figure  and  face  were 
hidden,  were  shrouded.  She  had  flung  her  loosely-held 
himation  to  veil  her  completely  from  view. 

The  grace  of  the  expressive  pantomime,  its  hint  of  poetic 
imaginary,  silenced  the  buzz  of  talk.  A  perfect  silence  en- 


THE  DANCER  295 

sued.  Having  captured  her  audience,  the  dancer  proceeded 
with  her  poses. 

Out  from  the  folds  of  the  veil,  unwrapped  with  purpose- 
ful slowness,  the  face  re-appeared.  The  features  were  still 
tight-knit ;  the  inward  fear  that  made  the  flexible  shape  now 
writhe  and  shrink  was  moving  hands  and  arms  to  out- 
stretched length-palms,  fluttering  outward.  Some  form  of 
invisible  horror  must  be  kept  at  bay  —  must  be  prayed  to  — 
was  being  placated. 

Presently,  the  hands  were  lowered;  the  face  lost  its  ter- 
rorised look,  —  the  muscles  relaxed  —  the  mantle  fell  to 
the  ground.  Upon  the  softened  features,  a  look  of  dawning 
expectancy  —  of  mounting  delight  grew  and  deepened.  The 
eyes  were  aflame,  the  whole  shape  was  suffused  now  with 
joy  —  the  very  draperies  trembled,  as  though  sensibly  shaken 
by  the  flutter  of  intimate  quivering.  Hands  were  once  more 
outstretched,  but  in  joyous  out-going,  and  shape  and  dra- 
peries were  now  swayed,  were  now  bent,  were  now  sent  fly- 
ing, from  court  end  to  court  end.  The  lovely  shape  might 
have  been  a  petal  blown  from  a  rose ;  or  a  leaf  whirled  across 
the  plain;  or  a  rain  of  blossoms  sent  fluttering  before  the 
breath  of  the  wind.  Now  she  was  floating,  borne  onwards 
by  a  strong  breeze;  now  she  rose  to  it,  alert,  exhilarant; 
now  an  eddy  had  caught  her  and  she  was  torn  and  worsted, 
her  tresses  loosened  and  wild. 

The  movement  was  suddenly  changed. 

Upon  bared  heels  the  dancer  turned  and  turned.  Like 
waves  whipped  by  a  rising  wind,  the  draperies  swirled  about 
the  white  limbs,  describing  lovely  curves,  little  hollows  and 
billowy  steeps  that  followed  and  circled  about  the  revolv- 
ing form  as  waves  part  and  follow  after  dolphins.  As  a 
watery  nymph  might  part  the  waves,  immerging,  rosy,  glis- 
tening with  Neptune's  pearls,  the  artist  swept  her  body 
bare,  to  the  waist ;  she  presently  lay  coiled  upon  the  ground, 


296         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

in  the  familiar  spiral ;  she  was  all  woman  above  and  serpent 
below. 

The  eyes  of  the  ladies  seated  about  the  court  had  followed 
every  change,  every  movement  of  the  dancer's  pantomime 
with  eager  intentness.  Each  phase  in  its  development  had 
been  interpreted  with  quick,  intelligent  rendering. 

"  Ah !  see  —  it  is  the  night,  shuddering  at  the  dawn's  ad- 
vent!" 

"  Ah  —  those  billows  are  the  sea,  whipped  by  the  dawn- 
breeze!  " 

"Yes!  yes,  it  is  indeed  the  sea  —  one  might  imagine 
dolphins  were  playing  in  those  hilly  undulations !  "  cried 
Hermione,  with  quick  delight,  clasping  her  hands  with  girl- 
ish joy. 

Myrto  leant  toward  her  mother.  "  How  beautifully  she 
personified  terror!  Oh  mother !  is  she  not  lovely ?"  Myrto 
was  beside  herself  with  rapture.  She  had  actually  for- 
gotten it  was  her  betrothal  banquet! 

"  Ah-h,  now  she  is  personating  a  sea  nymph.  How 
beautiful  she  is !  What  shoulders !  What  an  arm !  " 

The  hawk-eyed  woman,  a  cousin  of  Hermione's,  one  sit- 
ting close  to  her  thronos,  and  one  who  did  not  fear  to  visit 
a  sculptor's  studio,  and  even  boasted  of  her  daring,  was  also 
in  an  ecstacy  of  delight.  She  began  clapping  her  hands,  like 
a  man,  at  the  theatre,  but  the  ladies  silenced  her,  with 
angry  looks.  For  all  ears  were  being  rocked  by  a  lul- 
laby— 

For  the  dancer  was  singing,  softly,  as  the  Syrens  might 
have  sung  to  Ulysses. 

"  She  has  the  voice  of  a  bird !  " 

"  What  her  full  voice  must  be  —  if  these  be  but  her  half- 
tone notes!  " 

With  incomparable  skill  the  dancer  as  she  sang,  had  coiled 
her  draperies  to  take  the  fishy,  tail-like  finish  to  the  legen- 


THE  DANCER  297 

dary  mermaid  shape.  With  a  dexterous  touch  the  long  tres- 
ses had  been  loosened.  The  hyacinthine  rain  fell  over  and 
covered  the  bared  shoulders,  arms,  and  the  fair  bosom. 
With  a  playful  toss,  the  enveloping  mass  was  parted,  and 
now  the  white  fingers  were  busied,  plaiting  the  fallen  tres- 
ses. As  she  braided,  she  sang,  on  and  on,  still  soft  and  low, 
the  notes  at  first  of  weird  unearthly  remoteness.  Then,  as 
the  song  rose  to  fill  the  court,  there  was  a  burst  of  ap- 
plause. The  notes  thrilled  to  ecstasy  the  rapt  audience. 

Song  and  braiding  came  to  stop.  The  woman  above  the 
serpent  now  sent  forth  terror-stricken  eyes.  A  curious 
gurgling  sound,  as  of  one  plunging  into  deep  seas,  and  the 
coil  of  draperies  submerged  the  nymph.  Out  of  the  coil  a 
new  wonder  grew. 

With  magical  art,  the  displaced  garments  had  been  swept 
into  lines  of  grace.  The  fallen  tresses  were  re-looped;  the 
jeweled  clasps  sparkled  anew  on  the  dazzling  shoulder- 
slopes,  and  a  fresh  pose  was  taken.  From  being  fluid  as 
water,  the  dancer  was  now  turned  to  stone.  Her  eyes  were 
sent  outwards  —  high  up  —  as  though  to  a  mountain  top. 
The  expressive  facial  play  told  of  wonder,  rapture,  awe. 
An  invisible  miracle  in  upper  heaven  produced  a  mysterious, 
sensuous  delight.  Eyes  were  closed;  delicate  sighs  were 
breathed;  and  gently,  the  whole  figure  was  soon  swaying 
in  cadenced  rhythmical  grace,  as  though  blown  hither  and 
thither  by  a  celestial  breeze.  The  face  of  the  dancer  was 
now  like  unto  the  heart  of  a  rose,  the  light  upon  it  that  of 
intimate,  illuminate  seclusion.  Presently,  she  gathered  her 
veil  about  her.  Through  its  gauze  the  face  bloomed  forth 
like  rosy  dawn  through  mist. 

One  last  figure  completed  the  poetic  pantomime. 

The  dancer  swiftly  circled  about  the  court  with  wide- 
sweeping  steps.  Erect,  with  head  held  high,  with  regal  air, 
the  veil  was  now  a  scarf,  and  so  swift  were  the  cadenced 


298          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

steps,  Zepher  filled  it.  Ever  and  anon  the  head  was  turned, 
as  though  to  smile  at  some  shape  moving  beside.  Thus 
might  one  of  the  Graces  have  stepped,  on  aerial  heights, 
keeping  pace  with  the  sun-god's  golden  chariot. 

A  last  sweeping  rhythmic  motion  —  a  swirl  of  her  scarf 
—  and  the  draperies  were  gathered  close,  the  shape  fluttered, 
swam,  and  was  gone. 

The  dancer  was  come  to  her  rest  behind  the  columns  of 
the  lower  end  of  the  court. 

Loud  and  long  were  the  plaudits.  Flowers  rained  into 
the  court.  The  artist  must  come  forth  to  receive  these 
tributes  to  her  talent.  The  ladies  clapped  now  as  loud  as 
men.  Their  delight  was  manifested  in  exuberant  praise,  in 
noisy  applause.  They  called  again  and  again  for  the  artist's 
appearance.  A  new  distraction  alone  left  the  dancer  free. 
Hermione  had  ordered  the  slaves  to  serve  the  sweets  and 
fruits,  as  well  as  the  cooling  drinks. 

This  Nausicaa  felt  to  be  her  great  moment.  It  was  out 
of  the  question  for  her  to  accept  a  secondary  place  at  this 
first  festival  in  the  family.  She  had  been  at  Hermione's  side 
to  receive  the  guests;  she  was  now  telling  the  ladies,  in  her 
most  consequential  tone,  exactly  what  they  were  to  think 
about  the  dancer's  qualities  as  an  artist,  and  how  experienced 
critical  judgment  should  gauge  her  attractions  as  a  woman. 
The  ladies  listened  as  ladies  are  wont  to  listen  to  one  of  their 
own  sex  whose  daily  actions  outrage  the  feminine  rule  of  de- 
corum. 

"  Ump !  you  think  she  is  pretty  but  not  beautiful  ?  And 
that  her  pantomime  is  poetic  but  is  lacking  in  originality  ?  " 
the  nearest  neighbor  began,  with  fierce  combativeness. 
"  Well  —  let  me  tell  you,  you  Ionian  ladies  have  standards 
of  taste  we  Athenians  regard  as  contemptible.  For  this 
Corinthian  has  the  lines  of  a  goddess!  " 

"Has  she  not?"  cried  Hermione,  coming  to  her  guest's 


THE  DANCER  299 

side.  Hermione's  softened,  happy  look,  the  genuine  de- 
light that  thrilled  her  tones,  silenced  her  guest,  but  not 
Nausicaa.  She  gave  an  angry  twist  to  her  resplendent 
robe  —  about  whose  magnificence  not  half  enough  had  been 
said  by  these  envipus  Athenian  cats!  —  and  was  about  to 
open  a  real  war  of  words,  when  Hermione's  eyes  flamed. 
She  lifted  a  silencing  finger. 

"Oh-h  —  see!  She  is  about  to  play  to  us  now!"  And 
Hermione  sank  into  her  chair,  with  a  radiant  look  of  antici- 
patory pleasure. 

The  ladies  once  more  re-seated,  the  dancer  stilled  their 
voices  by  a  shrill  note  on  her  flute.  Above  her  piercing 
notes  she  heard  the  chorusing  exclamations.  She  stood  at 
her  tallest;  she  lifted  her  lovely  head  and  formed  her  lips 
obediently  to  pour  her  breath  into  the  stops.  A  poem  of 
pastural  life  trilled  through  the  reed. 

Down  light  blue  hills,  came  the  pattering  of  slipping 
sheep.  Many  and  many  were  there,  and  the  kids  were  full 
of  glee.  One  could  hear  their  pleasant  bleating,  under  the 
tinted  beaches,  under  the  dark  roofs  of  the  cypress.  The 
whir  of  bees  was,  also,  heard  in  sweet  clover;  and  birds 
gossiped  and  sang  in  close  branches.  There  were  notes 
that  made  the  smell  of  mint  in  flower  come  straight  from 
garden  beds,  and  asphodels  seemed  blowing,  light  as  down, 
tinting  the  meadows  to  pale  whites  and  violets. 

Now  upon  the  hill  tops,  the  shepherd  was  piping  to  his 
flock.  Through  rushes  and  reeds  the  flocks  moved.  The 
shepherd  trilled  to  the  nibbling  sheep  and  then  forgot  them. 
He  was  now  wooing  his  love.  A  rustic  divinity  had  dawned 
among  the  olives.  And  beneath  their  sea-green  tones,  the 
old,  eternal  battle  was  fought  anew,  of  man  wooing,  con- 
quering, and  of  maiden's  consenting. 

As  the  last,  long  drawn  love  note  quivered  and  died  upon 
the  perfect  stillness,  the  player  heard  but  one  voice  above 


3oo          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

the  delighted  applause.  Hermione  had  broken  forth  into 
ejaculatory  plaudits.  She  had  awakened  from  the  trance 
into  which  the  exquisite  playing  had  plunged  her.  She  had 
almost  forgotten  her  coming  anguish  and  sorrow  in  the  fierce 
tumult  of  emotion  aroused  by  the  music.  All  thoughts  of 
losing  Myrto  had  been  quieted,  almost  submerged,  indeed, 
by  the  waves  of  delight  the  artist's  playing  had  produced. 
Hermione  had  been  in  Euboea;  she  had  wandered  about  on 
her  great  hillslopes ;  —  had  heard  the  quiet  sheep  moving  to 
the  sweet  river  bank;  and  below  her  own  great  plane  trees 
she  had  found  peace. 

As  she  piped  the  shepherd's  lyrical  romance,  the  dancer's 
eyes,  above  the  rude  flute,  roved  wide.  She  had  scarcely 
appeared,  as  yet,  to  have  noticed  her  audience.  Even  Her- 
mione had  marvelled  at  the  power  of  absorption,  at  the  con- 
centred energies  of  this  gifted  creature. 

The  ease  of  executing  this  simple  lay  left  her  eyes  and 
thoughts  free.  The  beautiful  sea-grey  eyes  now  swept  the 
hawk-eyed  brightness  of  Hermione's  clever  but  over-inde- 
pendent cousin's  countenance;  —  on  Nausicaa's  wanton  Ion- 
ian grace  the  full  orbs  rested,  with  curious  questioning 
glance;  but  it  was  on  Myrto's  young  face  the  player  fixed 
her  eyes,  with  singular  intentness.  The  girl  could  not 
move,  nor  could  she  lower  her  eyes;  nor  could  the  colour 
flame,  to  some  sudden  emotion,  nor  could  the  face  be  set, — 
the  eyes  sent  staring  outward,  as  some  chord  of  emotion 
was  played  upon  —  but  the  dancer  had  caught,  noted,  did, 
indeed,  appear  to  reflect  Myrto's  quick  changes. 

Upon  her  and  upon  Hermione  the  large  luminous  eyes 
dwelt  again  and  again,  with  fierce  questioning. 

At  the  end  of  the  flute  playing,  the  dancer  again  took  a 
short  rest. 

The  audience  broke  up,  and  quickly  laughter  and  cries 
filled  the  court. 


THE  DANCER  301 

Myrto,  greatly  to  her  annoyance,  found  herself  imme- 
diately surrounded.  Hateful,  inquisitive  voices  were  ask- 
ing her  questions  impossible  to  answer.  How  rude  were 
even  very  great  ladies!  Because  one  was  cousin  to  Alicib- 
iades,  should  a  matron  think  she  had  a  right  to  ask  a  bride 
what  she  intended  to  wear  the  first  night  of  her  marriage? 
And  how  hard  to  bear  were  the  chorusing  voices,  prophe- 
sying, mysteriously,  of  the  effects  of  roses,  strewn  on  a  mar- 
riage-bed ;  of  the  peculiar  taste  of  kisses,  before  the  bride  had 
hardly  swallowed  her  last  morsel  of  quince  —  and  of  how 
tormenting  was  the  sound  of  the  bridesmaid's  voices,  teas- 
ingly  chanting  the  epithalamium,  at  dawn,  when  one's  eyes 
and  limbs  ached  with  sleep ! 

Myrto  turned  away;  she  hid  her  face  from  the  circle  of 
the  laughing,  boisterous  matrons.  How  wanting  in  taste 
were  their  allusions,  how  revolting,  to  a  sensitive  nature, 
their  coarse  jesting!  The  sight  of  a  defenseless  maiden 
seemed  to  whet  the  edge  of  these  rude  appetites  for  revell- 
ing in  sensuous  suggestion. 

Myrto's  one  longing  was  for  escape.  She  sent  her  mother 
pleading  looks.  Might  she  not  be  released?  Did  courtesy 
demand  her  submitting  to  further  torture? 

Hermione  came  to  her  darling's  rescue.  She  understood 
Athenian  feminity.  Little  as  she  saw  of  her  immediate  cir- 
cle, whenever  she  appeared,  she  ruled  as  a  queen  among 
willing  subjects.  Hermione,  therefore,  swept  the  teasing 
group  away.  She  drew  them  by  the  surest  of  magnets. 
Those  who  would  follow  into  the  gynaeconitis  —  might  look 
upon  the  bridal  veil,  the  costly  wedding  chiton,  and  other 

fineries. 

Freed  from  her  tormentors,  Myrto  swept  quick,  fierce  eyes 
about.  Hermione,  she  saw,  had  crossed  the  court,  drawing 
the  ladies  after  her.  Even  Nausicaa  had  gone,  and  also  the 
hawk-eyed  cousin.  The  brilliantly  lighted  andron  was  al- 


302         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

most  deserted.  The  dancer  —  yonder  —  could  be  heard 
giving  her  low  commands  to  her  assistant.  Even  she  now 
was  alone.  For  the  chorus-master  who  had  brought  her, 
had  gone  —  had  been  sent,  apparently,  on  some  business  con- 
nected with  the  coming  attraction. 

Myrto  felt  her  very  knees  quaking.  Dared  she?  Yes, 
and  why  should  she  not  ?  There  was  none  to  see  —  none  to 
chide.  And  even  were  there,  'twas  no  great  sin,  surely,  for 
a  girl  at  her  own  betrothal  to  speak  to  a  hired  dancer!  Be- 
ing married  ought  to  bring  one  some  enjoyment  and  free- 
dom—  such  poor  freedom  as  marriage  brought  to  Athenian 
matrons  would  be  hers  in  a  short  week ! 

Myrto  felt  drawn  to  that  bending  shape  as  a  needle  to  a 
magnet.  She  would  give  worlds  —  her  last  free  hours  of 
maidenhood,  her  costliest  marriage  gifts  —  she  felt,  for 
speech  with  as  wondrous  a  being.  Never  in  all  her  young 
life,  had  she  been  as  moved,  save  once,  as  by  the  dancer's 
poetic  imagery.  Timoleon's  love  notes,  in  the  far  distance, 
had  resung  their  stirring  emotion;  the  sweetness  and  ecstasy 
of  her  love's  young  dream  had  recaptured  her  senses;  the 
player  had  thrilled  her  to  her  very  soul  depths,  with  her 
moving  notes  of  song. 

Myrto  courageously  crossed  the  court.  She  would  brave 
all;  she  felt  suddenly  upborne  by  a  puissant  energy  and  dar- 
ing. 

Before  she  had  time  to  be  frightened,  she  had  slipped  be- 
hind the  column  that  almost  hid  the  dancer. 

As  Myrto's  light  footfall  fell  upon  the  concrete,  the  dan- 
cer had  come  to  a  startled,  affrighted  upright,  and  the  four 
eyes,  as  they  met,  were  interlocked.  Wonder,  the  shock  of 
a  great  surprise,  looked  out  of  eyes  that  seemed  to  have 
borrowed  each  their  deep  sea-tones,  their  luminous  quality, 
and  their  black  fringe  of  silken  lashes  from  the  other's  orbs. 
Below  the  elder  woman's  eyes  a  half  circle  of  pale  violet  was 


THE  DANCER  303 

the  rest  for  the  lower  lids;  the  secrets  of  a  more  fully  de- 
veloped experience  shown  forth  from  eyes  and  circle. 

The  artist  was  in  the  very  act  of  crowning  her  locks. 
Myrto  gazed  upward  in  amazement.  The  wreath  had 
dropped  from  the  artist's  hand.  Wonder  appeared  to  con- 
sume the  dancer!  She  was  devouring  the  maiden  before  her 
with  eyes  in  which  a  hundred  emotions  seemed  struggling 
for  mastery. 

As  though  in  sudden  pain,  the  hands  were  now  clasped. 
She  was  wringing  them;  and  soft  groans  broke  from 
her  pallid  lips.  "  Oh  —  Oh-h  "  she  murmured,  in  pitiful 
tones. 

"Are  you  in  pain?  Can  I  be  of  any  help?"  Myrto 
asked,  raising  her  own  lids.  She  felt  she  could  never  be 
done  with  looking  at  this  radiant,  transformed  being  —  this 
marvellous  artist  who,  a  moment  before  had  seemed  lovely 
indeed,  but  older,  of  womanly  growth  and  maturity. 
The  girl  who  now  confronted  Myrto's  rapt  gaze  was- 
scarcely  older  than  herself,  and  her  hair  —  like  her  own, 
was  bright  gold !  What  a  miracle  to  perform,  and  all  in  a 
moment !  — 

The  dancer  had  shaken  her  head  at  Myrto's  questioning. 
She  appeared,  if  not  in  pain,  to  be  still  strangely  moved. 
Myrto's  serious,  innocent-eyed  gaze,  with  its  look  of  ador- 
ing delight,  had  stirred  some  uncontrollable  spring  of  emo- 
tion. 

Myrto  noticed  the  dancer's  fingers  were  all  of  a  tremble, 
yet  she  was  smiling  in  a  way  to  make  one  feel  all  her 
thoughts  and  feelings  must  be  nobly  set. 

Myrto  crept  closer. 

She  felt  herself,  in  her  turn,  strangely,  unaccountably 
moved  and  stirred.  Yet  there  was  something  so  tender,  so 
loving  in  the  looks  bent  down  upon  her,  from  these  soul- 
speaking  eyes.  Such  a  moving  eloquence  in  the  trembling, 
speaking  —  yet  mute  —  mouth  that  Myrto  had  the  instinct  of 


304          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

a  kitten  to  nestle  closer  still  —  to  be  warmed,  to  purr  for  the 
gift  of  a  sudden  caress. 

The  caress  was  proffered.  But  its  character  was  as  amaz- 
ing as  was  the  question  that  broke,  at  last,  from  the  dancer's 
lips. 

She  had  grasped  Myrto's  wrist  with  swift  impetuous 
fierceness.  She  sent  her  great  eyes  about,  to  learn  if  still 
they  two  were  alone  —  could  count  on  the  moment's  se- 
curity. Then,  as  though  the  matter  had  long  been  the 
subject  of  previent  thought,  she  bent  close  to  Myrto's  ear  — 
she  whispered  in  pained,  compelling  tones,  yet  of  a  thrilling 
sweetness, 

"  Tell  me,  sweet  one,  Oh  tell  me !  This  marriage  —  this 
union,  with  him  —  with  Ion  —  is  not  what  you  desire?" 

Myrto's  amazement,  her  shock  of  surprise  were  such  as  to 
shake  her  strength.  She  felt  suddenly  giddy,  but  the  firm 
hold  on  her  wrist  steadied  her.  The  sweetly  agonized  eyes, 
still  raining  pain  as  they  seemed,  also,  to  be  flooded  with 
a  yearning  passion  of  feeling,  caught  the  child's  terrorized 
gaze,  calmed,  soothed,  controlled  it,  even  as  the  artist's 
warm  arm  now  encircling  her,  gave  Myrto  fresh  hold  upon 
her  senses. 

A  larger  speech  than  lips  could  frame  was  passing  be- 
tween the  two.  A  compelling  power,  one  Myrto  had  never 
known,  seemed  to  move  her  to  be  wholly  herself,  to  give  up 
the  treasured  secrets  of  her  timid  soul.  When  she  looked 
into  the  dancer's  deep  eyes,  and  met  her  probing  searching 
gaze,  Myrto  felt  as  though  some  goddess  were  before  her, 
with  heavenly  powers  to  unseal  her  lips. 

"  Oh  —  be  not  afraid  —  dear  Myrto  —  you  know  me  not 
—  you  cannot  dream  of  who  I  am  —  but  indeed,  indeed, 
I  am  to  be  trusted.  And  it  is  your  fate  and  mine  that  is 
now  to  be  decided." 

And  Maia,  with  passionate  pleading,  drew  Myrto's  slim 


THE  DANCER  3o5 

shape  to  her.     What  powers  of  persuasion  could  she  sum- 
mon to  make  the  dear  girl  speak? 

Myrto  answered  to  that  last  appeal.  This  then,  was,  pos- 
sibly, the  woman  whom  Ion  loved,  loving  whom  he  had  not 
wished  to  marry? 

Myrto  withdrew,  ever  so  slightly.  She  did  not  herself 
wish  to  marry  Ion,  nor  did  she  love  him.  But  to  be  con- 
fronted with  the  woman  he  loved,  and  she  a  dancer! 
Myrto's  reconquered  dignity  moved  her  to  straighten  to  a 
stiffened  upright.  A  dim  sense  of  injury,  as  of  having  been 
trapped  into  a  false  position,  of  being  forced  to  admit  things 
that  were  outrageous  —  coming  from  such  a  source  —  this 
rising  tide  of  indignation  was  blanching  Myrto's  lip  and 
cheek. 

Maia  divined  this  barrier  of  wounded  pride  building  be- 
tween them.  She  must  use  new  forces  to  break  it  down. 
Yet  how  find  right  words  when  she  herself  was  all  un- 
done? The  sight  of  Myrto,  of  this  lovely,  timid,  innocent 
darling  —  the  girl  she  might  have  been,  but  for  her  father's 
cruelty!  the  feeling  of  this  nearness,  yet  remoteness,  with  as 
adorable  a  sister  —  one  all  her  own  —  the  vague  conscious- 
ness of  the  strange  intermingling  of  their  fates,  and,  above 
all  else,  the  overmastering  drawing  of  the  blood-tie,  pulling, 
straining  for  acknowledged  oneness  —  Maia  was  all  but 
overcome  by  the  many  conflicting  emotions. 

Trembling,  shuddering,  torn  by  her  agony  of  suppressed 
passion  of  mingled  love  and  of  longing,  the  wave  that  had 
carried  Maia  to  this  crisis,  broke.  A  rising  sob  came  to 
choke  all  utterance.  The  great  tears  fell.  Unheeded  they 
dropped,  round  and  glistening,  upon  her  white  neck. 

For  an  instant  of  thrilled  wonder  Myrto  watched  them 
fall.  Then,  unaccountably  moved,  and  as  irresistibly 
drawn,  she  drew  near  to  the  weeping  dancer.  "  Oh-h  —  I 
do  not  know  —  but  I  think  I  divine  why  you  weep^  Listen, 


3o6         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

you  do  not  look  wicked  —  you  look  kind  —  as  you  are  beau- 
tiful. I  will  trust  you.  No-o  Ion  is  not  beloved  by  me, — 
but  we  must,  alas!  marry.  Our  fathers  wish  it,  and  the 
gods  —  the  fates  demand  our  union." 

The  dancer's  happy  laughter  that  bubbled  now  like  music 
from  her  lips,  was  as  wonderful  as  had  been  her  tears. 
For  Maia's  face  had  suddenly  become  radiant.  She  was 
holding  Myrto's  hands  in  hers,  close  to  her  heart,  as  she 
cried  — 

"  Oh !  —  The  fates,  even  the  gods,  blessed  be  they,  one 
and  all,  can  be  prayed  to!  Marry  Ion  you  shall  not,  since 
you  love  him  not  —  I  will  arrange  matters." 

Then  she  bent  downwards;  she  breathed  low  her  words: 
and  never  had  Myrto  heard  a  woman's  voice  as  tender. 

"Will  you  —  will  you  kiss  me,  dear  one?  Will  you  let 
me  feel  your  cheek  ?  " 

Obediently  Myrto  lifted  her  lips.  The  dancer  touched 
them  with  loving  ardour.  And  as  though  the  impulse  were 
beyond  her  power  to  restrain,  she  clutched  the  dear  form 
close.  Releasing  her,  she  whispered,  brokenly,  "  Oh  —  do 
not  wonder.  All  will  be  one  day  made  clear.  And  be 
comforted  —  also  —  dear  one !  For  Ion  has  been  true, 
wholly  worthy  of  your  confidence.  He  —  he  will  not  speak, 
he  has  not  even  seen  —  but  surely  some  calls!  We  must 
not  thus  be  seen.  There!  one  more,  and  remember  —  you 
shall  not  marry  unless — " 

Manes'  tall  form  now  darkened  the  brightly  lit  arcade. 
And  Myrto  slid  away. 

The  ladies  who  witnessed  Maia's  final  exhibition  of  grace 
and  skill,  were  amazed  at  her  novel  presentation  of  a  sub- 
ject worn  to  shreds. 

This  dancer  appeared  to  be  able  to  surpass  all  others. 
She  gave  her  audience  the  favorite  Greek  rendering  of  Venus 
and  the  Loves.  One  tiny  boy,  with  fluttering  wings,  mi- 


THE  DANCER  307 

raculously  fitted  to  his  fat  pink  shoulders,  was  now  perched 
on  one  of  the  dancer's  shoulders,  as  his  twin  sat  upon  her 
knees.  Next,  both  the  Loves  were  harnessed  with  silken 
reins,  and  Venus  was  driving  them.  Then  other  various 
poses  were  given,  till  the  last  was  reached. 

The  cherubs  rolled  in,  from  the  inner  arcade,  a  low 
chariot.  Into  this  the  queen  of  Love  stepped.  Out  of  a 
cloud  of  draperies  her  garlanded  head  rose  like  that  of  the 
Cyprian  goddess  from  the  soft  foam  of  the  sea.  And  the 
Loves  ran  nimbly,  round  and  round  the  court,  their  pranc- 
ing steps  carrying  the  gilded  car  to  its  final  rest  behind  the 
columns. 

Myrto  clapped  louder  than  all.  She  only  longed  to  have 
the  wonderful  pantomimist  go  on  and  on.  For  since  this 
her  betrothal  banquet  was  not  to  end  in  marriage,  it  was 
amazing  to  find  how  great  could  be  a  bride's  enjoyment. 


Chapter  XXVII 
MAIA'S  ARRIVAL 

THE  news  of  Ion's  approaching  marriage  had  met  Mala  at 
the  Pirasan  docks.  It  was  Manes  and  not  Ion  who  had 
hurried  from  the  crowd  collected  about  the  quais,  to  watch 
the  docking  of  Maia's  gallant  ship.  It  was  Manes  who  had 
brought  the  fair  structure  of  Maia's  bright  hopes  to  sudden 
ruin. 

Maia  had  set  sail  for  Athens  with  the  winged  feeling  of 
one  driving  her  car  of  happiness  to  its  goal,  at  full  speed! 
Free,  at  last,  since  Nirias  was  dead,  Maia  had  flown  to 
receive  her  victor's  crown.  Ion's  tightening  arms,  his  kiss 
of  approbation,  for  right  sacrifice,  for  long  waiting,  would 
be  her  conqueror's  wreath.  In  lieu  of  the  victor's  crown, 
Maia  was  to  drink  the  cup  of  misery  to  its  very  dregs. 

The  chorus-master,  on  hearing  of  Nirias'  death,  had  re- 
ceived from  Mago  the  glad  news  that  "  his  mistress  Maia 
was  to  come  to  Athens,  and  shortly:  would  Manes  select  a 
proper  house,  one  near  the  gardens  if  possible,  and  with  a 
garden  of  its  own." 

The  right  house  having  been  found,  one  providentially  but 
recently  finished,  large,  for  Athens,  and  with  a  fine  garden, 
Manes  was  all  eagerness  to  see  his  former  pupil  installed 
therein.  He  had  learnt  many  things  since  coming  to  Athens. 
Among  others  there  was  a  chapter  to  be  added  to  the  story 
he  had  told  Maia,  long  months  ago,  on  his  Corinthian  ter- 
race. 

Manes  had,  therefore,  gone  down  to  the  docks,  with  the 
eager  joy  of  one  who  brings  glad  tidings. 

308 


MAIA'S  ARRIVAL  309 

Mala,  though  she  stood  under  a  fringed  pavilion,  he  found 
in  no  state  to  hear  drama.  She  was  pale,  distraught.  The 
glory  of  her  looks  was  dimmed.  He  could  scarce  fix  her 
eyes  or  her  thoughts;  surely  Nirias  had  not  really  captured 
Maia's  heart!  The  mere  conjecture  seemed  to  exceed  the 
bounds  of  belief.  Yet  here  was  Maia,  robed  in  costly  gar- 
ments, with  captains  and  ships'  crews,  and  with  a  multi- 
tude of  slaves  crowding  her  deep  ship's  hold,  looking  the 
very  picture  of  woe !  The  situation  was  one  beyond  Manes' 
grasping. 

Thinking  to  divert  such  obvious  misery,  Manes  had  quick- 
ened speech.  The  very  latest  Athenian  gossip  he  spread  be- 
fore her.  She  lent  courteous  but  unheeding  ears.  At  last, 
however,  a  chance  word  —  a  stray  sentence  fixed  her  wan- 
dering eyes. 

"  Timoleon  —  the  new  leader  every  one  is  talking  of  — 
he  and  young  Ion  " —  at  these  names  Maia  had  turned. 
Her  cheeks  crimsoned  only  to  pale  to  Parian  whiteness. 

"  Yes,  yes,  Timoleon  and  Ion  —  what  of  them  ?  "  Maia 
now  started  to  a  quick  upright.  She  was  clutching  Manes' 
arm  j  —  the  nervous  pressure  of  her  fingers  told  him  more  of 
her  state. 

"  Well,  well  ?  "  Maia  cried,  insistently. 

"  Ah-h,  you  know  these  gentlemen  —  my  dear  ?  "  Manes 
asked,  but  did  not  wait  for  his  answer.  He  would  learn 
all  there  was  to  know,  by  skillful  handling  of  a  woman's 
emotion. 

"Well,  these  two  gentlemen  are  making  history,  and 
fast.  They  are  helping  Alcibiades  to  his  purpose  —  for  the 
war  fever  now  consumes  all  Athens  —  all  the  Piraeus  — 

"Ah-h!"  cried  Maia,  still  with  fixed,  strained  eyes;  she 
was  suddenly  grown  rigid  and  tense.     "  Go  on  Manes  - 
the  —  the  war  news  I  find  interesting." 

"  Well  you'll  hear  nothing  else  talked  of,  in  all  Athens. 


3io         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

The  city  has  gone  mad.  Plays,  the  theatre,  even  the  spring 
festivals  are  barely  mentioned.  Even  my  patron  has  lost 
interest  —  barely  finds  time  to  assist  at  a  rehearsal." 
Manes  sent  Maia's  white  face  a  searching  side-glance. 
Could  it  be  that  handsome,  rich  young  Ion  who  had  brought 
Maia  to  a  love  sick  stage?  If  so  —  but  Maia  was  con- 
firming his  clever  surmise.  Her  fingers  had  relaxed  their 
pressure.  She  had  taken  on  marble  hues. 

"  Your  —  your  patron  —  and  what  of  him  ?  "  Never  had 
Manes  imagined  Maia's  voice  could  show  such  trembling. 
For  all  the  itching  of  his  curiosity,  the  chorus-master's  strong 
heart  stirred  within  him.  He  longed  to  proffer  comfort, 
to  show  his  sympathy,  and,  instead,  awkward  blunderer  that 
he  was,  he  must  blurt  out  a  truth  that  struck  the  dear 
creature  to  earth. 

"  Why  —  nothing  —  only  Ion  —  the  Piraean  victor  —  you 
know,  I  have  told  you  I  am  in  his  pay  —  since  his  marriage 
is  so  soon  to  come  off,  finds  no  time, —  but,  in  Heaven's 
name,  what  ails  thee,  dear  Maia  ?  " 

Maia,  like  one  bereft  of  her  wits,  had  started,  with  wild 
fluttering  motion,  to  her  feet.  Her  arms  shot  out  of  her 
enveloping  draperies.  She  was  tossing  them  above  her  head 
as  might  a  Masnad  in  Bacchic  frenzy.  A  sharp  cry  stabbed 
the  air.  Hardly  had  the  shriek  of  anguish  rent  all  ears, 
when  Maia's  shape  fell,  in  the  limp  of  a  swoon,  across 
Manes'  arm. 

Love,  in  truth  having  entered  Maia's  soul,  had  come  as 
conqueror.  She  was  among  those  few  women  whom  a 
strong  passion  consumes  —  and  makes  separate.  As  the 
earth  receives  from  the  sun  its  light,  and  life,  and  beauty, 
so  Ion  and  love  of  Ion  were  to  make  for  Maia  the  one  sole 
luminary.  Her  poets  had  sung  of  such  consecrating  passion. 
She  had  smiled  and  doubted.  Now  her  life,  her  sad  days, 
and  sadder  nights  proved  the  poet's  singing  a  living  truth. 


MAIA'S  ARRIVAL  311 

By  Nirias's  bedside,  in  her  long  waiting,  she  had  lived  by 
that  high  flame  of  love.  Every  act,  every  thought  and  deed, 
had  been  fed  by  the  torch  of  that  illuminating  inspiration. 

In  her  care  of  Nirias,  during  his  illness,  she  had,  she  felt 
but  fully  repaid  her  debt.  Ion,  surely  Ion  would  love  her 
the  more  for  this  her  sacrifice!  With  passion  at  the  helm 
of  her  high  spirit,  still  Maia's  better,  nobler  past  would  not 
let  loose  its  hold.  Till  weak  and  dying  Nirias  was  dead, 
she  said,  again  and  again  to  her  hot  impatience,  Love  and 
Ion  must  wait.  Once  freed  —  and  then,  Ah  then !  What 
singing  together,  in  the  crowded  choir!  How  love  tri- 
umphant would  be  pressed  from  their  full  souls,  even  as 
wine  bursts  from  the  trodden  grape  —  yielding  its  full  in- 
toxicant ! 

And  now !  — 

After  the  first  agony  of  suffering  had  passed,  the  heroic 
element  in  Maia's  soul  helped  her  to  creep  back  to  life. 
Ion  married,  was,  she  well  knew,  Ion  lost.  Maia  had 
sounded  the  nature  of  the  dear  man  she  loved.  He  was  not 
yet  wholly  Athenian;  the  root  of  loyalty  was  there,  deeply 
imbedded.  If  he  married,  he  would,  at  least,  for  a  time  be 
true.  And  during  that  time,  she,  Maia,  would  be  follow- 
ing, day  by  day,  the  funeral  of  her  own  youth,  of  her  great 
beauty.  The  Maia  Ion  had  loved  would  be  buried  long  t 
fore  Ion,  as  a  middle-aged  man,  would  presumably  resume 
the  customary  life  of  highly  placed  Athenians. 

Must  she,  therefore,  as  long  as  life  lasted,  sit  down  wit! 

sorrow  ?  „,, 

The  vigorous  Athenian  air  brought  one  answer, 
mendous  Athenian  stir  of  life  and  the  tumult  of  this  war- 
time, swirling  about  her,  brought  another.     In  the  days  to 
come,  the  centre,  she,  Maia,  and  her  "  house  m  the  garden 
were  to  become,  for  all  that  was  most  brilliant  and  so 
moving,  in  Athens,  was  to  be  the  third  determining  facto 


312         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

in  restoring  new  energies  of  life  and  mind  to  one  who 
could  not  be  content,  indeed,  to  sit  down  with  sorrow. 

The  story  Manes  had  to  tell,  and  which  he  told  at  the 
very  beginning  of  Maia's  stay,  brought  to  Maia  the  first 
great  help  in  this  re-building  of  her  life.  Its  amazing,  far- 
reaching  consequences  stung  her  to  action.  And  quick  ac- 
tion is  grief's  deadliest  enemy. 

The  story  Manes  had  to  tell  was  this : 

On  his  arrival  in  Athens  certain  things,  stray  bits  of 
gossip  concerning  Critias  and  his  household,  had  aroused  his 
interest,  Manes  declared.  A  contract  made  with  Kronos, 
Timoleon's  slave,  for  sandals,  cothurni,  and  stuffs  for  the 
fitting  out  of  his  chorus,  had  resulted  in  strange  happen- 
ings. 

The  secrets  of  the  Critias  household,  among  others,  were 
revealed.  The  story  of  their  earlier  struggles,  before  Her- 
mione's  wealth  came  to  her ;  of  the  "  exposed  child ;"  the 
death  of  the  elder  children,  of  all  save  Thrasybulous,  of  the 
plague;  of  the  birth  of  Myrto  and  Serapion;  of  Critias' 
extravagant  ways,  once  Hermione's  fortune  was  come  to 
him;  of  his  vices  and  dissipation;  of  Hermione's  long  pa- 
tience, economy  and  proud  bearing;  of  her  hatred  of  her 
daughter-in-law  —  of  her  long  opposition  to  Ion  the  Piraean 
as  a  son-in-law,  and  finally,  seeing  Myrto's  sinking  to  quick 
decline,  of  her  glad  acceptance  of  the  match. 

With  Asia,  also,  Manes  next  had  many  hours  of  talk. 
Haunting  the  Agora  brought  a  man  strange  friends  and 
stranger  tales. 

"  These  Athenians  think  to  disgrace  a  man  by  dubbing 
him  "  Agoraeious  "  but  many  a  man's  fortunes  have  been 
made  by  knowing  when  to  pace  the  porticoes  " —  shrewdly 
interpolated  the  Corinthian.  • 

And  this  was  not  all  he  had  to  say.  The  most  astounding 
piece  of  news  was  still  to  be  told. 


MAIA'S  ARRIVAL  313 

It  was  Asia  who  had  confirmed  Mines'  belief  that  the 
missing  child  in  Hermione's  house,  was  the  babe  he  had 
found.  No  movement  in  Asia's  life,  she  avowed,  had  been 
so  poignant  in  tragic  consequences  as  when  she  had  left  "  her 
dear  mistress's  babe,  in  a  basket,  alone,  among  the  dead,  in 
the  Ceramicus." 

Since  that  day  her  mistress  had  never  been  the  same. 
One  longing,  one  terror  possessed  Hermione;  —  the  longing 
to  find  her  lost  child  among  the  innumerable  Greeks  or 
barbarians  coming  to  Athens,  and  the  terror  of  discovering 
in  some  mained  or  crippled  creature,  the  victim  of  her  hus- 
band's cruelty. 

At  the  familiar  phraze,  "  alone  among  the  dead,  in  the 
Ceramicus  "  Manes  confessed  his  excitement  had  made  him 
all  but  betray  his  great  secret.  He  could  not  repress  a  cry 
of  mingled  joy  and  amazement.  Although  Asia  had  used 
all  her  wiles  to  make  him  explain  this  shout  —  pleading, 
coaxing,  even  bribing  him  to  enlightenment  —  yet  Manes  had 
had  the  strength  to  keep  silent. 

"  Knowing  you  were  soon  to  come,  dear  Maia,  feeling  sure 
Nirias  could  not  live  forever,  I  waited.  Now  all  I  know  is 
yours.  Surely  now  you  can  separate  your  Ion  from  Myrto 
—  for  you  need  have  no  compunctions  —  she  loves  him  not." 
And  Manes  brought  his  wondrous  tale  to  a  climax  by  telling 
Maia  all  Kronos  had  hinted,  of  Timoleon's  hopes,  of  his 
having  captured  "  that  innocent  child's  fancy,  for  'tis  for 
him  she  weeps,  and  not  for  Ion  —  all  Athens  knows  what 
Asia  knows.  My  master  is  indeed  her  true  mate,  a  noble, 
like  herself,  and  now  becoming  a  power  in  Athens,"  Kronos 
had  concluded,  with  mingled  pride  and  affection. 

Maia  received  this  revelation  of  all  that  most  nearly 
touched  her  life,  with  mingled  emotions.  This  all  but  cer- 
tain knowledge  of  belonging  to  a  great  and  noble  house 


3H         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

thrilled  her  with  an  overwhelming  joy.  How  many  dark 
and  hidden  impulses,  motives,  and  aspirations  such  an  an- 
cestry made  clear ! 

Then  the  dark  shadow  fell  across  this  glowing  conscious- 
ness. Ion  about  to  marry  Myrto,  her  own  sister,  and  that 
sister  to  be  another  victim  to  their  common  father's  greed, 
to  his  lust  for  gold!  By  all  the  powers  below!  but  this 
double  crime  must  be  prevented.  The  gods  had  put  this 
knowledge  in  her  —  Maia's  hands  —  to  be  the  human  instru- 
ment to  work  their  will.  She  must  go,  and  at  once,  with 
her  wondrous  tale;  she  must  fling  herself  upon  Hermione's 
bosom,  clasp  Myrto  to  her,  and,  together,  they  would  con- 
front Critias  and  force  him  to  repentance,  to  justice!  Im- 
perious, overwhelming,  this  impulse  to  punish,  to  bring  Cri- 
tias to  judgment  drove  Maia  to  a  very  fury  of  enthusiasm. 
Orestes-like,  she  felt  impelled  to  turn  avenger. 

Twice  had  Maia  gone  to  the  house  in  the  Street  of 
Hermes. 

And,  though  she  faced  the  very  door,  had  an  invisible  hand 
withheld  her! 

Again  and  again,  by  night  and  by  day,  an  inward,  warn- 
ing voice  had  risen  up.  "  Wait!  wait!  "  it  whispered,  "  not 
yet  —  strange  and  wondrous  things  are  yet  to  happen." 

And  Maia  felt  herself  compelled  to  listen  to  the  voice. 

The  more  vehemently  Manes  urged  disclosure,  therefore, 
the  more  fixed  and  obstinate  had  been  Maia's  refusal. 

When  Manes  pled  with  her,  when  he  showed  the  differ- 
ence the  knowledge  of  her  relationship  to  Myrto  might 
make  to  Ion  —  "  Ion,  surely,  once  he  knew  he  was  to  wed 
Maia's  sister,  might  well  hesitate,  might  find  excuses,"  even 
to  this,  the  most  potent  of  Manes'  arguments,  Maia  found 
plausible  answer. 

"  Never  fear,  Ion  will  not  wed  Myrto,  of  that  I  am  well 
assured,"  she  would  cry,  with  eyes  fixed  and  set,  but  with  a 


MAIA'S  ARRIVAL  315 

soft,  radiant  smile  — the  smile  of  a  believer.  "No,  no, 
Nemesis,  she  who  also  holds  the  scales  of  hope,  tells  me 
differently." 

"And  your  mother,  what  of  her?  Have  the  fates  whis- 
pered their  will  to  you  concerning  her,  also?"  was  Manes' 
satirical  query.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  that  this  Maia 
of  Athens  was  no  longer  the  same  as  the  Maia  of  Corinth. 
This  enigmatic  woman  was  as  mysterious  as  was  the  winged 
sphinx,  at  Delphi. 

Maia  continued  to  present,  indeed,  fresh  proofs  to  her 
former  master,  to  her  one  time  father,  of  his  complete  ig- 
norance of  a  woman's  mind.  Her  reply  to  his  sarcasm  gave 
him  further  food  for  ruminating  thought. 

"  Ah-h,  my  mother !  Believe  me,  O  Manes,  Hermione  is 
happier  longing  for  me,  than  would  she  be  to  find  me,  since 
I  am  the  woman  I  am.  She  remembers  the  babe  she  lost. 
'Tis  that  babe  her  arms  long  for.  It  has  never  truly  grown 
up.  But  for  a  grown  woman,  such  as  I  —  and  one  with  my 
history !  —  Now  tell  me,  Manes,  what  would  Hermione  and 
I  find  to  talk  about,  shut  up,  day  after  day,  in  a  spinning- 
room  ?  Can  you  picture  me  at  a  loom  ?  " 

Both  smiled,  as  Maia  presented  the  strange  prospect. 
Manes  was  forced  to  concede  the  strength  of  this  argument. 
Maia  went  on  — 

"  Were  I  to  announce  our  surmises,  were  we  to  show  our 
treasured  casket,  the  amulet,  and  tell  all  —  and  they  should 
receive  me,  what  would  become  of  me?  In  such  surround- 
ings, think  you,  one  who  has  tasted  life's  freedom  —  one  who 
has  breathed  the  air  men  breathe  —  has  travelled  far,  has  sor- 
rowed, and  lived,  and  loved,  could  such  as  I  —  now  — 
cramp  my  soul  to  low  doors?  No!  No!  Manes,  I  must 
indeed  live  my  life  as  the  gods  have  decreed.  I  accept  my 
fate."  Brave  and  convincing  as  were  her  words,  Maia's 
tone  was  shadowed  with  gloom.  For  she  remembered  the 


316         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

curse  that  lay  upon  the  great  house  of  Alcmaeonfd.  Was  this 
dread  destiny  to  descend  upon  her?  Was  this  unrelenting 
weaving  of  fate's  web  the  secret  of  her  thwarted  life  ?  —  of 
the  ever-recurring  anguish  of  handling  the  cup  of  joy  only 
to  have  it  dashed  from  her  grasp,  at  the  very  moment  of  the 
glad  sipping  of  life's  nectar?  How  near  she  had  come  to 
clasping  hands  with  joy!  How  sure  the  cruel  touch  that 
had  swept  the  clasp  asunder,  to  leave  her  life  empty,  deso- 
late. Was  this  —  this,  indeed,  the  end?  To  find  noble 
kindred,  to  be  among  those  greatest  in  Athens,  and  yet  not 
to  be  able  to  claim  one's  place?  To  love  and  to  know  one's 
self  loved,  and  to  have  one's  own  sister  step  between  ?  What 
must  she  —  what  could  she  do  ?  For  never  must  the  dread- 
ful crime  be  permitted  of  Ion's  marrying  Myrto! 

The  "  Voice  "  said  "Wait!" 

As  the  days  drew  near,  and  rumours  of  the  approaching 
betrothal  banquet  thickened,  Maia  felt  the  mounting  of  re- 
bellious forces.  Every  pulse-beat  sang  aloud  its  longing  for 
a  quick  finish.  Act  she  must,  and  soon  —  or  let  the  true 
end  come  —  let  her  drift  onward  toward  Charon's  waiting 
boat.  Yet  the  choir  of  ringing,  inward  voices  counselled 
patience;  —  louder  and  louder  they  sang,  until,  two  days 
before  the  banquet  they  stopped. 

Manes,  in  a  mighty  flutter,  had  rushed  to  Maia's  court. 
He  had  great  news  to  announce  —  and  more  than  news. 
The  quick  plan  he  had  formed,  he  felt  scarce  needed  speech. 
His  secret  was  given  to  Maia  in  his  eager  flame-lit  features 
and  in  his  speaking  eyes! 

But  Maia  was  overcome  with  a  great  trembling.  She 
heard  nothing,  knew  nothing,  apparently,  save  that  Manes 
had  said  he  had  talked  with  Ion.  "  How  did  he  look?  Did 
he  seem  pale,  worn,  did  he  look  happy,  elate?  Did  his  words 
come  easily,  as  one  glad  of  the  project?  Is  the  wedding  to 
follow  immediately  after  the  banquet?  Oh!  why  can't  you 


MAIA'S  ARRIVAL  317 

find  a  tongue?  Where  are  your  wits?"  was  Maia's  dis- 
tracted acceptance  of  Manes's  statement. 

Manes  had  seen  women  in  such  straits  of  passionate  impa- 
tience before.  He  calmed  Maia's  over-wrought  state;  he 
bored  himself  with  giving  full,  tiresome  details.  Ion  looked 
as  usual,  he  thought ;  perhaps  a  little  less  blooming  — 

"  Ah-h  "  was  his  reward.  Maia  looked  rosier,  on  the  in- 
stant. 

"  He  spoke  as  a  man  might  speak  of  a  relative's  birthday, 
he  named  the  day  of  the  wedding,  indeed  —  and  of  the  be- 
trothal, yet  there  was  neither  thrill  nor  throb  in  his  tones." 

"  Dear  Manes,  how  clever  an  observer  you  are!  Go  on, 
on,  I  say.  Why  are  you  withholding  the  date  of  the  mar- 
riage ?  "  Maia's  eyes  had  the  glitter  of  steel.  Her  breath, 
Manes  saw,  dried  upon  her  lip,  even  as  it  flamed. 

"  The  wedding  is  to  come  off  in  a  week  —  The  be- 
trothal—" 

But  Maia  had  grasped  Manes  hands,  as  though  they  were 
Fortune's  own.  She  clung  to  them,  caressed  them,  leaning 
forward,  as  one  who  could  not  bear  the  full  weight  of  golden 
joy,  as  she  cried, 

"  Manes,  dear  Manes,  what  a  friend  you've  proved  your- 
self! A  week,  you  say,  a  whole  week!  Surely,  the  gods 
are  good!  For  there  will  be  time!  I  cannot  fail  to  see 
him,  to  speak  with  him  before  then.  He  cannot  keep  hid- 
den a  whole  week,  he  must  see  to  things,  must  practice  — 
with  his  cavalry  company  —  yonder  —  must  walk  to  places, 
must  make  at  least  a  last  appearance,  and  before — "  It 
was  Manes's  voice  cut  her  words  short. 

"  Listen,  Maia!  I  have  a  plan.  The  Fates  have  thrown 
you  a  chance  —  and  one  in  a  thousand  —  for,  changing  per- 
haps, all  things.  Will  you  take  it?  "  Manes  held  the  flut- 
tering fingers  still.  He  fixed,  or  rather  attempted  to  fix, 
Maia's  wild,  wandering  eyes. 


3i8          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

"  The  Fates  have  thrown  you  one  great  chance.  Will 
you  take  it?  "  he  repeated,  insistently. 

"Of  course.  What  is  it?"  Maia  was  entirely  herself 
once  more.  She  felt  equal  now  to  any  form  of  action.  Her 
resolute  soul  was  medicined  —  was  whole.  Ion  was  not  to 
be  married  for  a  week.  In  a  week  the  heavens  might  fall! 
Sparta  might  come,  knocking  at  Athen's  doors!  The  fleet 
might  sail  for  Sicily!  There  was  no  wild,  no  daring  impos- 
sibility, Maia  did  not  caress  as  probable,  as  certain  to  come 
to  pass,  to  stay  the  drop  of  Fate's  bolt. 

The  full  lips;  the  hands  clasped  tight  about  knees  upon 
which  the  clever,  brilliant  face  rested,  inspired  with  thrilled 
thought, —  this  new,  yet  old  Maia  —  the  Maia  Manes  had 
known  in  their  days  of  old  at  Corinth,  was  indeed  gloriously 
herself  once  more. 

The  demand  for  a  clever  dancer  and  flute  player  at  the 
banquet,  Manes  was  telling  her,  would  open  the  doors  of 
Hermione's  house  to  Maia.  Did  she  but  choose  —  she  could 
thus  present  herself  as  the  professional  he,  Manes,  had  se- 
lected. As  she  was  first  to  appear  before  women,  her  real 
identity  would,  for  a  time  at  least,  not  be  suspected.  She 
would  be  entirely  free  to  disappear  —  to  fall  ill,  before  the 
great  feast  —  any  excuse  would  serve. 

Maia's  soul  rose  to  the  plan.  She  felt  the  very  gods  willed 
it.  For  the  warning  voices  were  stilled.  This,  obviously, 
was  the  divinely  appointed  moment! 

She  was,  therefore,  to  be  permitted  to  enter  the  house  of 
her  fathers !  She  would  actually  see  her  mother  —  might, 
perhaps,  herself  all  unknown,  have  speech  with  Hermione  — 
with  dear  Myrto.  Maia  felt  a  strong  sweet  yearning 
stretch  out  towards  her  sister.  The  abyss  that  lay  between 
their  lives  was  bridged  by  Maia's  tender  longing  to  see  the 
girl  she  might  have  been  —  one  like  Myrto  —  her  very  twin 
—  innocent,  ignorant  of  sorrow  and  hardship,  as  of  love. 


MAIA'S  ARRIVAL  319 

The  project  suited  well  with  Maia's  intense  longing,  also, 
to  look  upon  this  hidden  Athenian  life  of  noble  women. 
The  revelation  this  knowledge  would  bring  might  change  all 
things.  Herself  unknown,  she  would  be  the  freer  to  see, 
to  judge,  to  make  the  final  great  decision  of  all  their  fates. 
For  more  and  more  Maia  felt  herself  directed.  Invisible 
forces  were  fluttering  about  her.  Doubtless  the  dear  god 
of  her  ancestral  house  —  Apollo  himself,  was  guiding  her 
actions.  With  such  celestial  guardianship,  she  could  not  go 
wrong.  Whatever  was  to  come  of  this  meeting  with  her 
kindred,  would  be  the  dear  god's  will. 

It  was  in  this  spirit  Maia  had  gone  up  to  the  house  of  her 
fathers. 


.Chapter  XXVIII 

MAIA'S    LITTLE   PLOT 

THE  dance  over,  Maia  found  the  impulse  to  act,  and  the 
necessity  for  immediate  action,  driving  her  onward  with  the 
relentless  force  of  an  imperious  fate.  One  fierce  desire  con- 
sumed her.  She  must  see,  she  must  find  Timoleon.  No 
part  of  the  mysterious  drama  of  which  Maia  felt  herself  now 
to  be  the  chief  actor,  was  more  amazing,  more  startling, 
than  that  Timoleon,  of  all  those  she  had  come  to  know  in 
Athens,  should  prove  to  be  the  one  instrument  best  fitted  to 
further  the  mad,  yet,  also,  entirely  sane  scheme  that  was  to 
precipitate  the  climax  of  this  day  of  days. 

The  plan  for  disentangling  the  knotted  threads  of  fate, 
had  been  disclosed  to  Maia,  in  miraculous  manner. 

Had  Apollo's  voice,  through  his  preferred  priestess  — 
through  the  Delphian  lips  —  shouted  the  divine  command, 
Maia  could  not  have  felt  more  assured  of  the  celestial  de- 
cree. Clear  as  the  aerial  paths  of  light  trod  by  the  Im- 
mortals on  their  way  to  Olympus,  had  Maia  been  led  along 
the  road  to  action. 

The  secret  of  how  to  liberate  Myrto,  Ion,  and  herself, 
had  been  delivered  to  her,  as.  though  shot  down  from 
Heaven's  blue.  Even  as  she  had  quivered  within  her  mantle, 
simulating  the  Dawn  shudder,  the  scheme  had  opened,  in 
wondrous  unfolding.  It  had  grown  to  clear  and  definite 
shape,  as  she  had  played  the  Syren ;  it  had  assumed  the  calm 
of  easy  feasibility,  as  she  had  fluted  pastoral  scenes  and  rustic 
loves.  Surely,  through  the  lute  —  his  own  loved  instrument 
—  Apollo,  from  his  shrine,  had  breathed  the  miracle. 

320 


MAIA'S  LITTLE  PLOT  321 

When  she  had  sung  the  Apolline  Hymn  upon  her  double 
flute,  even  as  those  women  before  her  had  visibly  trembled, 
swayed  by  their  inner  emotion,  so  had  Maia  quivered  with 
the  triumphant  sense  of  the  coming  of  this  quick  deliverance. 

Now,  thrilling  still,  now  cold,  now  hot,  limp,  alert,  burn- 
ing with  impatience  at  the  slow  measured  tread  of  her  car- 
riers—  now  trembling  with  dread  lest  the  human  instru- 
ment she  had  selected  to  accomplish  this,  her  plotting,  should 
fail  her  —  Maia,  within  her  litter,  was  also  played  upon  by  a 
hundred  emotions. 

Before  the  curtains  were  fully  drawn  she  had  breathed 
a  command.  "  Tell  the  bearers,  Mago,  to  carry  me  to  the 
street  of  the  Tripods  —  the  lower  end.  There  they  are  to 
stop.  I  walk  from  thence  to  the  gardens."  With  swift 
gesture  the  curtains  were  then  swung  to. 

As  she  sank  among  her  full  pillows,  Maia  buried  her  burn- 
ing face  in  her  cold  hands.  The  reaction  from  the  long 
strain  was  proven  in  the  ache  of  pulsing  nerves.  The  dear 
gods  in  heaven!  but  what  a  scene!  What  shades  to  have 
lived  through,  and  yet  to  be  alive! 

Swirling,  like  eddying  currents,  now  rushing  with  tumul- 
tuous force,  now  circling  about  some  minor  insignificant 
detail,  the  overwhelming  impressions,  thoughts,  incidents,  as 
well  as  the  full  force  of  the  tragic  facts  of  her  late  tremen- 
dous experience,  massed  themselves  before  Maia's  mind. 

And  so  that  nobly  featured  matron  was  her  mother !  How 
the  dear  face  had  worked  —  how  moved  to  exquisite  tender- 
ness had  been  the  features  when  emotion  stirred  them! 
Ah-h  —  whence  had  come  the  power  to  withhold  the  cry 
that  had  leapt  forth  at  the  sight  of  those  tears,  of  those  dear 
work-worn  hands,  interlocked,  when  she,  her  lost  daughter, 
had  wooed  Hermione  to  think  delicate  thoughts  — to  hear 
Pan's  flute  among  the  river  rushes! 

Then,  with  a  wild  swirl,  Maia's  thoughts  rushed  to  circle 


322         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

about  that  other  vision.  Myrto's  pure,  believing  eyes  con- 
fronted hers;  they  spoke  to  her  with  a  thrilling  power,  here, 
beneath  the  swaying  silken  roof  of  her  litter,  as  they  had 
when  Myrto  had  looked  her  faith,  her  childish,  rapturous 
joy,  within  their  father's  painted  court.  Ah-h  —  to  that 
faith,  she,  Maia,  must  indeed  be  true.  She  and  she  alone 
could  save  them  both,  she  felt,  from  the  dreaded  fate  of 
their  common  misery.  Even  as  the  thought  of  Myrto  came, 
with  a  start,  Maia  realized  that  every  moment  carried  the 
tragedy  onwards,  with  lightening  wings.  A  smothered  cry, 
wrenched  from  her  sense  of  hopeless  battle  against  time  — 
against  what, —  were  it  not  prevented,  would  be  a  crime 
indeed  —  burst  from  her. 

Then,  with  the  cry  came,  as  sweeps  a  lightning  stroke 
across  dull  skies,  the  full-orbed  belief  in  the  coming  cer- 
tainty of  success.  Still  at  such  a  critical  time,  every  chance 
of  failure  must  be  cleverly  forestalled. 

Maia,  therefore,  groped  blindly  for  her  tablets.  Bidding 
her  bearers  stop,  while  she  wrote,  she  scratched  the  neces- 
sary words  —  tore  and  folded  the  leaves,  bidding  Mago,  in 
strained  tones,  "  Should  you  fail  to  find  Timoleon  at  his 
house,  look  for  him  in  the  Gymnasium  —  the  one  close  by  the 
gardens  —  and  bring  me  word  who  among  the  officers  is 
practicing,  with  armour  —  in  the  pit."  Mago  had  listened, 
had  saluted  as  he  seized  the  folded  leaves,  and  was  gone. 

Having  relieved  her  mind  of  the  dread  of  missing  the  man, 
the  one  man  in  all  Athens  who  might  be  used  as  the  Fates' 
instrument  —  Maia  once  more  leaned  back  among  the  cush- 
ions. 

She  was  amazed  to  feel  a  now  singular  elation  succeeding 
the  frenzy  of  a  few  moments  before.  She  breathed,  as  in 
months  she  had  not  breathed,  the  elastic  air  of  recaptured 
freedom  —  of  serene  conviction.  The  feeling  that  before 
the  sun's  setting,  the  deed  would  be  done,  touched  her  whole 
being  into  flame.  Never  had  she  felt  such  command  of 


MAIA'S  LITTLE  PLOT  323 

her  powers;  never  had  her  intellect  lent  itself  to  her  will  as 
now  it  did. 

Scarcely  had  Mago  left  her,  when  the  litter  was  brought 
to  a  stop.  The  entrance  to  the  famous  street  was  before  her. 

It  was  the  time  and  the  season  when  the  beautiful  Athe- 
nian thoroughfare  was  at  its  most  brilliant  shade.  Maia 
saw,  at  a  glance,  that  all  social  Athens  was  gathered  there. 
Young  men  fresh  from  cavalry  evolutions  in  the  Lyceum, 
had  brought  thither  their  heightened  colour ;  some  still  wore, 
with  gallant  air,  their  peaked  riding  hats,  and  others  han- 
dled shining  goads. 

Handsome  youths,  of  half  foreign  birth,  who  had  passed 
the  afternoon  in  athletic  exercises,  in  the  Kynosarges,  outside 
the  gate  —  the  gymnasia  specially  reserved  for  metics  or  the 
illegitimate  —  were  now  freely  mingling  with  the  rightly 
born,  without  fear  of  disturbing  the  city's  peace.  Such 
youths  showed  dark,  liquid  eyes  and  warmer  skins  than  the 
Athenian  clearer-toned  eyes  and  complexions.  Eastern  or 
Ionian  languor  revealed  itself  in  the  lolling  postures  of  these 
young  men  of  mixed  blood.  The  glitter  of  their  many  jew- 
els, on  fingers,  in  tunic  clasps,  and  on  sandal  thongs,  made 
one  with  the  dazzle  that  lined  the  long  winding  street,  whose 
curve,  beneath  the  Acropolis'  stern  eastern  end,  wound  like  a 
glittering  cincture  of  bronze  and  gilt,  between  the  uprising 
rock  of  the  citadel,  and  the  city  wall. 

The  glow  of  the  dropping  sun  harmonized  tripods  and 
shrines,  statues,  and  the  living  forms. 

Some  hetserae,  whose  crosus-coloured  draperies  caught  and 
seemed  to  hold  the  sun's  glow,  now  deepening  in  the  zenith, 
carried  their  light  grace  hither  and  thither,  from  youths  to 
the  more  elderly,  like  butterflies  who  light  but  to  flit  anew. 

Maia  sent  searching  eyes  from  group  to  group.  The  face 
she  longed  to  see  — was  alas!  not  there.  Timoleon  was 
either  late  or  was  gone  elsewhere.  At  the  thought  of  all 


324         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

that  hung  upon  her  finding  him,  Maia's  knees  suddenly  bent 
like  wax  beneath  her.  Yet  her  lips  wore  the  smile  of  vic- 
tory rather  than  defeat. 

Many  were  the  eyes  that  met  hers,  sought  to  fix  them, 
and  failing,  pressed  forward,  to  bar  her  swift  steps.  Some 
advanced,  indeed,  and  swept  close  beside  her ;  to  those  whom 
she  already  knew,  she  made  courteous  excuse,  her  pressing 
haste  being  clearly  obvious.  But  her  appearance,  she  soon 
found,  in  the  Tripods  was  become  the  event  of  the  day. 
She,  the  most  talked-of  among  beauties  —  the  least  seen  — 
the  least  known,  was  come,  at  last,  to  take  up  her  place  as 
queen  of  beauty.  The  press  about  her,  the  buzz  of  admiring 
comment  was  thickening  to  an  unbearable  degree,  when  a 
well-known  voice  came  to  her  rescue. 

"  Maia  of  Corinth !  of  all  wonders  for  glad  eyes !  " 

"  O  dear  Glaucus  " —  cried  Maia,  hurrying  towards  the 
young  man  as  she  gathered  her  flimsy  draperies  together  with 
nervous  grasp,  "  how  charming  of  you  to  come  —  and  at  the 
very  moment  I  most  needed  you !  "  Maia's  elastic  step  car- 
ried her  free  of  her  over-zealous  admiring  throng. 

"  Now  I  am  crowned  indeed,  sweet  Maia !  "  lisped  Glau- 
cus as  he  threw  back  his  head,  with  boyish  glee.  "  'Tis  the 
first  time  I've  so  much  as  won  a  recognition  at  your  hands. 
Pray  tell  me  in  what  way  I  can  be  useful." 

Between  the  bright  aisle  of  glittering  bronze,  the  two  now 
hurried  on.  Maia's  calm  had  returned  to  her  all  her  skill 
for  quick  decisive  action.  Did  Glaucus  know  where  Tim- 
oleon  was  to  be  found,  she  asked?  Might  he,  indeed,  be  now 
and  at  this  very  moment,  near  that  dearest  of  all  his  friends 
—  that  mysterious  Ion  whom  all  talked  of  —  and  whom  no 
one  saw? 

Maia's  deep  eyes  slanted  their  glance  at  Glaucus'  fair 
cheeks.  Glaucus,  of  all  men,  would  be  the  last  to  read 


MAIA'S  LITTLE  PLOT  325 

aught  but  idle  curious  questioning  in  the  eyes  all  Athens 
found  worthy  of  being  talked  about. 

"You  call  Ion  mysterious?"  Glaucus  blurted  out,  his 
own  eyes  wide  with  the  marvel  of  finding  the  strange  things 
women  see  in  men.  "  Surely  Ion  is  easy  to  read.  It  ap- 
pears he  must  marry  —  to  please  his  father.  And  he  prac- 
tices, therefore,  till  the  very  last  moment  of  freedom  —  to 
please  himself.  This  betrothal  banquet  comes  off  no  later 
than  to-night  —  worse  luck." 

"  Yes  —  yes  —  and  so  I  have  heard.  But  'tis  of  Timo- 
leon  I'm  thinking.  If  you  chance  to  see  him,  will  you  tell 
him,  from  me,  I  await  him  —  and  am  longing  to  see  him?  " 

"  Lucky  Timoleon !  Why  do  the  gods  pour  all  the  gifts 
into  one  man's  lap?  You  women  are  all  alike  —  you  run 
after  a  man  once  he  is  seated  in  Fortune's  car.  Don't  frown, 
sweet  Maia!  your  message  shall  be  delivered  and  quickly  — 
and  that  it  may  bring  him  the  quicker,  I'll  go,  on  the  instant 
to  the  gymnasium  —  he's  quite  certain  to  be  found  there  — 
applauding  Ion's  mighty  thrusts." 

And  Glaucus,  with  his  customary  courtesy,  sent  backwards 
a  winning,  graceful  salute.  Maia  blessed  him  —  as  he  sped 
onwards.  Ten  chances  to  one  —  he  would  find  Timoleon. 
And  to  have  learned  that  Ion  was  still  exactly  where  she  had 
prayed  he  might  be  found,  was  surely  direct  answer  to 
prayer. 

Through  the  goldening  glow,  Maia  bent  her  steps  down- 
wards, to  her  home  close  to  the  "  Gardens."  Hymettus 
bloomed,  in  deep  purple  hues,  against  the  burnished  sky;  in 
firm  noble  outlines  the  mass  seemed  to  loom  forth,  with 
tender  protecting  solemnity.  The  hour  of  all  her  life,  Maia 
felt,  with  sudden  trembling,  was  before  her.  The  very  hills 
breathed  strength! 

The  slave  whose  duty  it  was  to  usher  in  visitors,  received 


326          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Timoleon  as  he  entered  Maia's  house,  with  a  smile.  He 
soon  brought  word  that  his  mistress  was  awaiting  Timoleon 
in  the  pastas. 

In  this  inner  court,  where  Maia  hid  her  life,  Timoleon 
had  not  as  yet  entered.  His  eyes  travelled  fast,  as  he  fol- 
lowed her  slave.  He  could  not,  he  felt,  take  in  rapidly,  all 
the  details  of  a  court  whose  perfection  made  one  catch 
their  breath,  so  great  was  its  contrast  to  that  of  the  mean 
Athenian  interiors. 

The  walls  he  noted,  were  tinted  a  pale  lilac.  Against 
them  the  Doric  columns  rose  up  like  sturdy  purple  stalls; 
their  capitals  bore  touches  of  gold  and  deep  crimson.  East- 
ern tapestries,  whose  deftly  interwoven  figures  wore  draper- 
ies that  repeated  the  polychrome  tones  of  the  court,  hung  at 
the  further  end  of  the  deep  pastas.  Upon  inlaid  couches 
and  chairs,  embroideries,  glittering  with  gold  and  silver 
threads,  formed  a  rich  sombre  background  out  of  which  the 
tinted,  brilliantly  lighted  court  seemed  to  bloom,  like  a  deli- 
cate flower  from  a  deep-toned  vase. 

In  the  midst  of  the  shaded  gloom  of  the  pastas,  Timoleon 
saw  Maia.  She  was  seated;  she  held  a  frame  upon  her 
knees.  In  and  out  of  the  frame,  her  fingers  were  pricking 
stitches.  The  long  threads  she  drew  made  her  rounded 
arms  show  off  their  snowy  outlines  to  distracting  perfection. 

As  Timoleon  hastened  towards  her,  Maia  did  not  rise. 
With  a  smile  she  motioned  her  visitor  to  a  thronos  —  one 
close  beside  her. 

"  Pray  be  seated,  and  excuse  my  greeting.  I  have  had 
an  exciting  day  —  and  many  visitors  —  I  was  somewhat 
weary." 

"  You  are  becoming  the  fashion  —  Maia  " —  Timoleon 
bent  forward,  his  eyes  beaming  admiringly.  He  took  up  a 
silver  thread,  one  that  had  slipped  along  Maia's  robe.  He 
let  its  brightness  run  through  his  fingers,  playing  with  it. 


MAIA'S  LITTLE  PLOT  327 

Maia  slanted  cautious,  watchful  eyes.  When  his  fingers 
had  reached  the  point  of  her  knee,  she  would  pull  the  thread, 
as  though  to  wind  it. 

"  Perhaps,"  was  her  quiet  answer  to  his  flattery.  She 
was  fixing  eyes  now  upon  her  work.  "  But,  although  these 
young  men  came  to  see  me,  they  remain,  apparently,  to  listen 
to  Socrates."  As  Maia  named  the  philosopher,  her  voice 
had  an  accent  of  pride. 

Timoleon  dropped  the  thread.  He  leant  back  in  the  curv- 
ing incline  of  his  chair.  He  narrowed  his  eyes.  "  And  so 
Socrates  has  found  you  out  ?  " 

"  So  it  seems.  He  has,  you  see  —  good  taste  in  woman  — 
at  least  so  your  Pericles  thought."  Maia's  smile  made  her 
face  wear  a  youthful  expression,  whose  malicious  amusement 
seemed  that  of  a  child. 

Timoleon  did  not  reflect  Maia's  mirth.  Her  gay  little 
thrust  he  had  hardly  heard.  The  naming  of  Socrates 
brought  the  brood  of  doubt  to  shadow  thought. 

"  Did  he  happen  to  mention  the  war  ?  "  Timoleon  sud- 
denly asked,  with  a  restless  curiosity. 

"  He  talked  of  little  else.  He  was,  indeed,  very  elo- 
quent." Maia's  eyes  brightened. 

"  And  convincing  —  I  presume,"  quickly  retorted  Timo- 
leon, almost  bitterly.  "  Did  his  specious  arguments  con- 
vince you,  also,  of  Athens'  coming  folly  ?  "  And  he  leant 
forward  with  an  almost  savage  air. 

Maia  turned  her  frame,  took  time  to  insert  her  needle, 
before  she  replied  gravely  —  "  I  am  a  true  disciple,  you  see, 
I  was  already  a  believer  in  these  his  views." 

Maia's  serious  words  made  Timoleon  bound  from  his 
chair.  "You  believe,  you  believe!  What  ground  for  this 
belief  of  yours  have  you?  As  for  Socrates  —  when  a  man 
proclaims  he  hears  voices,  and  bases  on  such  absurdities 
serious  arguments  for  stopping  an  Empire's  great  enter- 


328          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

prise,  sane  men  cannot  be  expected  to  listen  —  as  to  a  true 
oracle.  But  you,  you  at  least,  are  an  outsider,  you  have 
heard  the  men  of  Corinth  talk.  What  have  they  said  to 
make  you  believe  we  are  embarking  on  a  foolish  expedition  ?" 

Timoleon  had  brought  his  agitated  steps  about  the  pastas 
to  a  stop;  he  stood  before  Maia  as  though  before  a  Sybil, 
from  whose  inspired  lips  he  was  to  hear  truth. 

Maia  put  her  frame  aside.  What  lay  before  her  was 
the  very  opportunity  to  her  hand.  She  pointed  to  the 
empty  chair.  She  smiled  up  willingly,  pursuasively,  as  she 
motioned  Timoleon  to  his  seat. 

"  Do  sit  down,  dear  man,"  she  began,  in  her  soft  caress- 
ing tones.  "  I  cannot  talk,  as  you  would  have  me,  if  you 
are  stalking  about  the  room  like  a  wild  beast,  unchained. 
Now  listen."  Maia  drew  nearer  to  her  now  quieted 
visitor;  she  put  her  hands  before  her,  joining  the  tips  of  her 
forefingers, -showing  a  perfectly  serious  face  above  them,  as 
she  began. 

"  I  will  begin  by  asking  you  certain  questions.  When 
your  famous  Embassy  returned  from  Egesta,  they  reported 
to  the  Senate  that  the  City  was  rich;  that  they  had  been 
magnificently  entertained;  that  at  each  one  of  the  splendid 
banquets  given  them,  by  different  distinguished  citizens,  the 
plate  displayed  was  very  costly  —  pure  gold.  Even  the 
ewers  were  gold."  Maia  waited,  her  eyes  asking  confirma- 
tion of  a  statement  that  was  now  common  property. 

"  Yes,"  Timoleon  replied ;  wonder  as  to  what  this  now 
stale  news  had  to  do  with  what  he  hoped  were  more  import- 
ant revelations  filled  his  eyes. 

"  Also,"  Maia  went  on,  "  When  they  were  shown  the 
temples,  the  temples  they  found  were  also  full  of  gold," 
again  she  paused. 

"  Yes,  all  that  is  true." 

"  And  therefore,  Egesta  being  rich,  could  easily  afford  to 


MAIA'S  LITTLE  PLOT  329 

defray  at  least  the  first  expenses  of  the  war  —  she  could 
easily  give  Athens  sixty  talents." 

"Ye-es,  all  true." 

Maia  bent  over  her  couch  with  rigid  fixidity.  Her 
coming  stroke  would  spell  victory  or  defeat.  She  felt  her- 
self trembling,  from  the  sense  of  all  that  hung  on  the  way 
Timoleon  would  take  the  great  news.  With  a  sudden  pull 
at  her  courage,  she  went  on. 

"  Listen,  then,  Timoleon,  to  that  which  is  also  true."  She 
now  spoke  with  rushing  impetuosity,  in  the  Corinthian 
way,  when  Corinthians  were  stirred  to  great  earnestness. 

"  The  Egestaen  merchants,  you  know,  come  yearly  to 
Corinth.  Nirias  knew  several,  and  well.  They  brought  his 
house  cargoes  of  corn,  wool,  fruits  and  even  horses,  for  the 
Isthmian  games.  Nirias  sold  to  them,  in  return,  finely 
woven  woolen  stuffs,  and  other  of  our  merchants  veils  and 
chitons  for  their  women,  and  Corinthian  vases.  When 
Nirias  was  ill,  of  his  last  illness,  one  Egestaen  came  to  us,  as 
a  house-guest.  He  amused  Nirias,  for  he  talked  much  of 
your  war,  of  the  means  Egesta  was  using  to  induce  you,  as 
allies,  to  come  to  her  help.  Well,  seeing  poor  dear  Nirias 
revive  under  this  war  talk,  he  told  him  one  night,  a  strange 
tale.  He  thought  dead  men  safe,  and  any  one  might  read 
death  in  Ninas'  eyes. 

"  This  is  what  he  told  us. 

"  When  the  Athenian  envoys  arrived,  sent  by  the  Senate 
and  the  people,  the  Egestaens  were  terrorised.  How  en- 
tertain them?  How  present  a  respectable  state  before 
mighty  Athens?  How,  poor  as  they  were  — 

Timoleon  jumped  in  his  chair.  "  Poor!  "  he  gasped,  and 
he  steadied  his  almost  uncontrollable  excitement  by  grasp- 
ing at  the  two  lion  heads  beneath  his  hands. 

"  Poor  as  they  were,"  Maia  echoed,  her  chill  beginning 
to  be  replaced  by  a  delicious  warmth,  for  Timoleon 's  state 


330         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

was  the  very  one  fitted  to  her  purpose,  "  Still  Athens  must 
be  impressed,  must  be  persuaded  to  the  contrary.  Ban- 
quets and  banquets  in  plenty  should  be  given.  The  richer 
citizens  would  lend  each  other  their  plate.  To  this  all 
agreed.  By  night  it  was  carried  from  house  to  house,  so  as 
to  make  a  fine  impression.  And  when  their  temples  and 
the  treasury  were  opened  out  for  the  Envoys  to  admire,  all 
the  plate  the  City  owned  was  piled  up  high,  to  present  a 
splendid  appearance.  And  even  then  the  plate  that  was 
supposed  to  be  pure  gold,  and  very  costly,  was,  alas  but 
paltry  silver  gilt!  And  as  for  ready  money,  there  were 
not  a  hundred  talents  in  all  the  Treasury!" 

Maia,  as  she  finished  her  amazing  statement,  leant  back 
among  her  pillows.  Her  strained  look  passed  from  her  face, 
yet  the  excitement  of  imparting  her  secret  and  the  deeper 
anxiety  as  to  how  its  results  would  affect  her  own  great  pro- 
ject, had  temporarily  unnerved  her.  Her  agitated  breath 
lifted  her  chiton.  She  found  her  gaze  transfixed  by  Timo- 
leon's  changed  countenance. 

He  stood  over  her  with  blanched  features,  with  eyes  that 
seemed  starting  from  his  head.  The  \vords  his  pallid  lips 
attempted  to  frame  Maia  saw,  were  being  formed  with  vio- 
lence. The  whole  man  was  shaken,  was,  apparently,  ex- 
periencing a  terrible  moment. 

The  moment  was,  indeed,  a  terrible  one.  In  Maia's 
revelation  Timoleon  had  seen  the  downfall  of  his  own  rising 
fortunes,  of  Alcibiades'  anger,  of  the  people's  rage,  of,  per- 
haps, Athens'  ruin. 

With  the  dread  vision  cruelly  clear  before  his  eyes,  of  all 
this  that  was  to  come  to  pass,  Timoleon's  passion  of  disap- 
pointment, of  despair,  was  making  one  last  gesture  of  appeal. 

"  You  are  sure  of  all  this  ?  You  would  be  willing  to 
stand  by  what  you  say  —  before  all  Athens?  " 

Maia  lifted  proud,  defiant  eyes.     Her  lip  curled,  as  she 


MAIA'S  LITTLE  PLOT  33I 

made  swift,  indignant  answer.  "  I  am  not  given  to  lying 
—  though  I,  too,  am  Athenian.  But,  if  you  think  I  have 
told  you  all  this,  for  Athens  to  be  a  sharer  in  the  news, 
you  are  greatly  mistaken." 

"  But,  but  —  by  all  the  gods !  they  must  know,  and 
quickly !  I  must  indeed  go,  and  at  once,  to  Alcibiades  —  he 
must  consult  with  the  generals,  with  the  senate." 

"Neither  he  nor  you  will  confer  with  any  one.  Be  sensi- 
ble—  you  are  really  not  as  clever  as  I  thought — "  Maia's 
eyes  were  now  laden  with  mysterious  meaning.  Timoleon 
suddenly  felt,  indeed,  as  he  looked  into  her  grave  eyes,  the 
bare  truth  of  her  words.  This  girl,  this  hetaera  from 
Corinth,  was  teaching  him  a  new  strange  lesson  of  humility. 
No  divining  rod  of  his  could  touch  her  depth. 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not  understand  you,"  he  admitted,  his 
tones  big  with  wonderment. 

"  So  I  perceive.  I  will  enlighten  you.  This  revelation 
is  to  be  a  secret  —  between  us.  If  you  spread  it  abroad,  I 
will  deny  all  knowledge  of  the  facts.  So  you  see  it  is  to 
your  advantage  to  keep  silent  about  the  matter.  Your  in- 
terest," it  pleased  Maia  to  see  Timoleon  start  —  to  note  the 
life  coming  back  into  his  face  —  how  accurately  her  insight 
had  read  him !  "  Your  interest  lies  in  possessing  this  knowl- 
edge and  in  not  acting  upon  it." 

"  You  mean,  surely  you  do  not  mean  I  am  to  let  Athens 
rush  into  a  ruinous  war  —  into  debt?"  cried  Timoleon, 
feeling  a  virtuous  impulse  surge  upwards. 

"  This  going  to  war,  on  the  contrary,  will  be  of  use  to 
Athens.  She  needs  to  be  stirred,  to  have  her  fighting  spirit 
renewed.  In  that  respect  you  and  your  leaders  are  in  the 
right.  And  Sicily,  if  not  Egesta,  has  spoils  enough  to  make 
the  adventure  worth  while,  while  your  purse  and  that  of 
Alcibiades  will  come  back  replenished  —  never  fear." 

Maia  laughingly  held  out  her  hands  towards  Timoleon. 


332          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

She  let  him  press  them.  His  joy  and  relief  at  Maia's  re- 
assuring words  and  gestures  were  great.  This  wonderful 
being  appeared  to  hold  in  these  her  slim  hands  the  destinies 
of  nations!  What  a  divine  creature  it  was! 

Timoleon  forgot,  in  his  excitement  and  enthusiasm  the 
distance  at  which  Maia  had  always  held  him.  He  at- 
tempted to  draw  her  to  him.  His  eyes  were  full  of  the 
question  his  lips  dared  not  frame. 

Maia  wrenched  her  hands  away.  She  put  them  safely 
behind  her.  But  she  did  not  take  pains  to  move  away. 
That  which  she  intended  next  to  say,  would  have  power  to 
move  him  —  or  she  was  greatly  mistaken,  far  more  than  any 
of  the  lower  forms  of  passion. 

"  And  now,  as  I  have  done  you  a  favour,  you  are  to  confer 
one  upon  me."  Her  sea-grey  eyes  met  the  bronze  orbs  so 
close  to  her  lids,  with  the  level  gaze  of  a  commanding  god- 
dess. 

"  Ask  me  of  me  what  you  will,  dear  Maia,  nothing  is  too 
much." 

'"You  are  to  buy  me  a  war-trireme,  to  man  it,  to  equip 
it,  and  —  and  to  command  it !  " 

Timoleon's  amazed  wonder,  surprise,  and  the  quick 
mounting  of  delight,  fairly  transfixed  him.  Maia  had 
counted  upon  just  such  an  effect. 

"  You  see,  therefore,"  she  went  on,  with  glad,  smiling 
lips,  "  since  I  make  this  offering  to  the  State,  I  also,  be- 
lieve in  your  war!  " 

"  Maia!  "  Timoleon  was  breathing  hard  and  deep.  The 
one  hope  he  had  felt  that  could  never  be  granted  him, 
to  go  worthily  to  this  war,  was  now  being  tendered  him 
and  in  magnificent  fashion.  The  prospect  of  his  great  good 
luck  gave  Timoleon  a  heady  sensation.  He  still  felt  the 
agreeable  reel  of  delirium  at  Maia's  next  sentence. 

"  With  my  gift,  however,  goes  a  condition,  and  one  only," 


333 

Maia  looked  the  very  image  of  innocent  pleading,  as  she 
poured  the  effulgence  of  her  steady  gaze  into  Timoleon's 
flame-lit  eyes. 

I  Name  it  — it  is  yours!  "  he  gasped,  clasping  her  hands. 
"  You  must  help  me  to  prevent  Ion's  marriage,  and  now, 
at  once !     There  is  not  an  instant  to  lose." 

Tmioleon  started  as  though  a  lance  had  pierced  him.  He 
dropped  Maia's  hands.  His  start  carried  him  away  from 
her.  Timoleon  felt  more  than  his  breath  taken  from  him. 
First  of  all,  evil-eyed  suspicion  leapt  up.  Had  she  known 
Ion?  Did  she  love  him?  Where  had  they  met?  He  had 
never  once  heard  of  Ion's  having  gone  to  Corinth  —  and 
Maia,  by  her  own  confession,  had  never  but  once  before 
been  to  Athens. 

Maia  appeared  to  read  his  mind  as  she  might  an  open 
scroll;  she  was  calmly  telling  him  his  thoughts. 

"  I  see,  you  leap  at  the  common  conclusion  —  that  I  have 
met  Ion,  at  some  time  in  my  past,  and  have  fallen  in  love  of 
him.  Were  this  true,  that  alone  would  be  reason  enough, 
surely.  But  this,  for  me,  were  it  indeed  true,  would  not  be 
cause  enough,  for  the  plan  I  wish  you  to  help  me  execute. 
There  is  another  and  far  graver  reason,  one,  however,  that 
must,  for  the  present,  be  kept  secret.  Now  listen,  do  not 
gasp  or  start,  until  you  hear  the  end.  There  is  nothing 
so  very  terrible  in  what  I  am  about  to  propose.  It  can 
be  easily  enough  accomplished." 
She  told  him  her  plan. 

Ion,  she  reminded  him,  was  even  now  practicing  in  full 
armour,  in  the  big  gymnasium.  His  trainer  was  the  well- 
known  swordsman,  Clearckus.  "  Now  Clearckus,  like  all 
trainers,  is  susceptible,  I  hear  and  on  good  authority,  to 
bribes.  The  sight  of  minae  disturbs  his  perception  of  the 
true  distance  between  right  and  wrong." 

As  Timoleon  smiled,  Maia  paused.     She  must  gather  all 


334          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

her  courage  together.  The  saying  of  what  was  next  to  come 
was  indeed  difficult. 

"Well?" 

"  You  are  to  bribe  Clearckus,  you  are  to  bribe  him  to 
show  Ion  some  new  passes,  and  in  the  showing  there  is  to 
be  some  heavy  work  done  —  the  thrusts  and  passes  —  must 
be  swift,  must  be  furious."  Again  Maia  paused.  Her 
lips  were  dry.  She  could  scarcely  slip  the  words. 

"And,  after?"  Timoleon's  gaze  was  now  narrowed  —  a 
mere  glint  of  bronze  showed  the  line  between  the  lids. 

"  During  the  struggle  there  would  be  nothing  extra- 
ordinary were  a  leg  or  an  arm  of  Ion's  to  be  broken.  Such 
accidents  happen  daily.  Only  —  in  this  case,  Ion  must  have 
his  left  leg  or  arm  in  a  splint  within  a  shade — at  the  latest!" 
With  eyes  that  strove  to  be  perfectly  steady,  Maia  glanced 
at  the  water-clock  that  stood  in  the  court.  There  was  still 
time;  Ion  would  not  be  leaving  his  trainer  for  at  least  a 
good  hour.  The  bath  and  dressing  for  the  banquet  would 
consume  the  period  intervening  between  his  athletics  and 
the  banquet. 

Timoleon's  face,  meanwhile,  had  recorded  the  passing  of 
many  emotions.  His  wonder,  at  Maia's  startling  proposi- 
tion, had  been  replaced  by  a  growing  excitement.  Delight, 
joy,  and  the  tinge  of  a  malicious  satisfaction  now  coloured 
his  mobile,  expressive  face.  He  was,  indeed,  experiencing  an 
almost  completely  happy  moment.  The  prospect  of  strik- 
ing Ion  down,  at  the  proudest  moment,  but  one,  of  his 
victorious  career;  the  hope  that  leapt  up,  that,  with  Ion 
winged,  and  this  dreaded  marriage  indefinitely  postponed, 
lie,  Timoleon  could  steer  his  boat  into  the  longed-for  har- 
bour; the  necessity  for  action,  and  for  that  kind  of  action 
for  which  he  felt  himself  peculiarly  fitted  —  for  accomplish- 
ing a  deed  in  dark  ways  —  as  these  thrilling  thoughts, 
triumphs,  hopes  swept  his  mind,  Timoleon  felt  that  at  last 


MAIA'S  LITTLE  PLOT  335 

Hermes  had  truly  blessed  him.  None  but  a  god  could  have 
sent  him  a  trireme  to  command  and  his  rival  stricken  down 
at  one  and  the  same  instant ! 

Timoleon  managed  to  check  the  fury  of  his  impatience; 
he  summonded  a  laugh;  he  threw  his  head  back,  in  pre- 
tended merriment,  as  though  the  wild  proposition  was  to 
be  taken  rather  as  comedy  than  drama. 

"  By  the  winged  Gods!  Maia,  but  you  are  indeed  to  be 
feared.  He  whom  you  love  has  more  reasons  than  one  to 
dread  your  embrace." 

"  I  never  said  I  loved  Ion,"  Maia  gravely  answered, 
"  or,  indeed,  that  I  even  know  him.  Now  tell  me,  since  I 
see  you  accept  my  proposition  —  in  case  a  limb  is  skillfully 
broken,  how  long  will  it  take  to  heal  ?  It  must  heal  before 
summer  —  but  only  just  before  the  fleet  sails." 

"  Ha!  ha!  she  has  it  all  planned,  and  to  a  nicety!  And 
this  lovely  face  can  hide  such  devil's  plotting.  This  hand, 
white  as  Parian  marble,  can  strike  as  cruelly  as  Nemesis. 
What  harm  has  Ion  done  you,  dear  one,  that  you  should  be 
so  bent  upon  hurting  him  ?  " 

Maia  let  him  fondle  her  limp  hand.  She  felt,  indeed, 
her  strength  ebbing.  She  feared  now  the  loss  of  a  single 
instant.  She  must  be  rid  of  her  visitor,  must  get  to  rest 
—  give  her  tortured  thoughts  time  to  regain  their  calm. 
Clapping  her  hands,  she  bade  the  slave  who  appeared  bring 
refreshments.  But  Timoleon  excused  himself.  He  must 
hurry  off  —  "  Must  try  to  find  Clearckus,"  he  added,  laugh- 
ing —  as  though  thus  to  pass  the  whole  matter  off  as  a  joke. 

Maia  let  him  depart.  Her  mind  was  entirely  at  rest. 
Timoleon,  she  knew  perfectly  well,  did  not  intend  to  treat 
her  plan  as  a  joke.  He  had  reasons  enough  of  his  own,  as 
she  well  knew  —  for  setting  the  right  machinery  in  motion. 
Now  that  the  accomplishment  of  her  purpose  was  in  an- 
other's hands,  all  she  could  do  was  to  wait.  With  a  long 


336         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

moan  of  mingled  exhaustion  and  of  quivering  expectancy, 
Maia  flung  herself  upon  her  couch.  How  many  shades 
must  she  wait,  before  the  news  came  of  the  success  of  Timo- 
leon's  portentous  errand? 

Before  nightfall,  Athens  rang  with  a  sensational  an- 
nouncement. Ion  of  the  Piraeus,  the  Olympian  victor,  on 
the  very  eve  of  his  betrothal  to  Critias'  daughter,  has  been 
severely  wounded.  While  practicing  sword-play,  his  train- 
er's or  his  own  foot  had  slipped.  Those  who  stood  watch- 
ing the  practice  declared  it  was  the  trainer's  blunder;  Ti- 
moleon,  Ion's  greatest  friend,  was  of  that  opinion.  But  Ion 
swore  it  was  he  himself  who  had  been  careless.  He  had 
dashed  forward  to  whirl  a  wild  circling  blow  —  a  new  trick 

—  and   he   had    lifted    his   shield,    instead    of   lowering   it. 
Clearckus'  sharp  sword,  searching  for  the  home-thrust,  had 
pricked  Ion's  thigh.     And  a  soldier  who  gave  an  enemy  such 
a  chance,  had  indeed  a  right  to  be  laid  upon  his  couch.     A 
wound  was  light  punishment  for  what  might,  in  battle,  have 
cost  as  awkward  a  blunderer  his  life. 

The  lady  guests,  it  appeared,  had  already  assembled  in 
Hermione's  court.  After  having  seen  the  new  dancer  per- 
form, she,  who  later,  was  to  be  the  chief  novelty  presented  at 
the  banquet,  after  the  bride  had  withdrawn,  these  feminine 
guests  had  presented  a  comic  scene  to  Athens'  laughter-lov- 
ing soul.  Nausicaa,  that  clever,  if  reprehensible  daughter- 
in-law,  had  rehearsed  the  spectacle,  for  her  slave's  benefit. 
And  the  slave  had  carried  the  comic  features  to  every  house 
in  the  neighborhood.  The  ladies'  cries  of  wonder  and  rage,* 

—  the  bustle  and  confusion ;  —  the   fears  of  some   at   not 
finding  their  way  home,   in   the  early   dark;  —  the  angry 
reflections  of  others  at  the  expense  of  providing  new  gowns 
and  costly  wreaths,  and  "  none  to  see  " —  feminine  eyes  not 
counting  when  masculine   orbs  were  expected   as  mirrors ; 

—  and  the  scene  in  the  street,  when  all  these  wrathful  guests 


MAIA'S  LITTLE  PLOT  337 

and  their  disgust  were  become  the  talk  of  Athens  —  every 
feature  of  this  amusing  ending  of  a  somewhat  tragic  accident 
was  in  every  one's  mouth  by  night-fall. 

Two  there  were  who  went  to  their  rest  with  joy  in  their 
hearts.  Maia  laughed,  and  wept,  and  sang  and  wailed. 
For  Ion  was  saved.  Yet  he  lay  wounded  —  and  by  her 
hand. 

Myrto  flung  herself  upon  her  pillows  with  a  song  and  a 
praper  upon  her  lips.  The  lines  of  a  paeon  she  had  sung  at 
Athena's  festival  were  murmurred,  in  glad  triumph.  And 
once  more  she  prayed  to  Hestia.  "  Till  the  fleet  sail,  dear 
goddess,  keep  Ion  away.  And  then,  O  then  send  me  Ti- 
moleon !  " 


Chapter  XXIX 

THE  VOICE  OF  FATE 

IN  the  months  that  followed,  Maia  wondered,  if,  after  all 
much  had  been  accomplished  by  Ion's  accident.  The  mar- 
riage had,  at  best,  but  been  post-poned.  Were  Ion  suffi- 
ciently recovered,  the  wedding  would  surely  take  place. 
Then,  to  avert  as  great  a  crime,  full  confession  must  be 
made.  And  what  effect  would  the  knowledge  of  her  — 
Maia's  —  kinship  with  Myrto  have  on  her  own  fate? 
Would  her  father  —  would  proud  Hermione  receive  her? 
Would  they  let  her  marry  Ion? 

Such  were  the  harrassing  doubts  and  fears  that  crowded 
thick  about  Maia's  inner  life,  every  moment  snatched  from 
the  more  and  more  exciting  events  that  made  each  Athenian 
day,  in  these  early  summer  months,  one  continuous  drama. 

Athens  was  rushing  to  this  her  great  war-adventure,  as 
though  it  were  but  play.  Greek  restlessness  and  the  love 
of  righting  chance  were  finding,  at  last,  after  years  of  peace, 
their  longed-for  outlet. 

Recitations  of  Homer,  wooing  the  crowds  to  tears  or  ex- 
citing them  to  impassioned  longing  for  an  Achillian  moment, 
rose  up  from  every  street  corner.  And  no  ephebi,  fresh 
from  his  first  garrison  duty  on  the  frontier,  but  carried  his 
short  chlamys  light  as  air,  as  he  swept  Athenian  streets,  to 
enroll  himself  as  recruit  in  this  his  first  real  war. 

In  Maia's  world,  everyone  she  had  grown  to  care  for, 
or  loved,  in  secret,  was  heart  and  soul  for  the  great  ven- 
ture. 

Critias,  who  had  been  in  turn  traitor  to  every  political 

338 


THE  VOICE  OF  FATE  339 

principle  of  his  treacherous  oligarchical  party,  was  fixed  at 
last.  The  State  war  tax  imposed  upon  him,  of  a  trireme, 
had  finally  settled  his  unsettled  mind.  He  was  now  dyed 
in  Alicibidian  colours.  Crates'  deep  pockets  and  Ion's  mil- 
itary ardour  were  to  make  taxation  light. 

Crates,  he,  also,  had  been  finally  caught  in  the  war  toils. 
Like  hundreds  of  others,  now  the  great  enterprise  was  de- 
termined upon,  Crates  proposed  to  turn  it  to  trade  account. 
He  was  sending  ships  and  men  to  extend  his  commercial  in- 
terests. 

Glaucus  developed  an  equally  keen  mercantile  sense.  His 
own  trireme,  he  confessed,  was  to  take,  besides  the  required 
number  of  hoplites,  a  large  quantity  of  costly  ewers  and 
golden  goblets,  all  of  the  best  Athenian  workmanship. 

"  After  we  have  conquered  Sicily  and  have  taken  all  the 
spoils  we  ourselves  can  carry  away,  the  Sicilians,  who  are 
rich,  will  want  to  buy  luxuries.  Why  not,  therefore,  win 
a  double  benefit?" 

This  amazing  shrewdness  in  Glaucus  surprised  all.  So 
true  it  is  that  those  who  live  nearest  to  us,  are  the  first  to 
be  surprised  at  any  unsuspected  trait  in  character. 

Ion  on  his  couch,  fretting  at  his  captivity,  yet  knew  not 
an  idle  moment.  As  captain  of  the  horse  his  time  was  fully 
taken  up  in  the  outfitting  of  his  squadron  on  a  scale  of  utmost 
splendour. 

Timoleon,  who  had  laughed  at  Glaucus'  suddenly  awak- 
ened speculative  spirit,  had  promptly  copied  him.  Kronos 
was  driven  mad  with  the  orders  to  run  the  factory  at  full 
speed,  that  his  —  or  rather  Maia's  trireme,  might  be  ladened, 
along  with  the  necessary  provisions,  with  a  cargo  of  gold  and 
silver  sandal  thongs. 

The  beauty  and  perfection  of  Timoleon's  trireme,  was 
indeed  the  wonder  and  admiration  of  all,  as  this,  his  new- 
found wealth  had  also  furnished  malicious  slander,  for  both 


340         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

enemies  and  friends.  Timoleon  smiled,  gave  no  explana- 
tions, and  took  his  friends  who  abused  him  best  in  the  porti- 
coes, "  to  see  the  crews  train." 

Glaucus,  Ion,  and  Ariston  gave  their  praise  according  to 
their  nature.  Glaucus  praised  the  seaman-like  qualities  of 
the  beautiful  ship,  criticised  the  stroke  of  the  Thranitae, 
and  asked  the  impertinent  question,  "  Where  has  gold  grown 
so  plentifully,  my  Timoleon  ?  " 

Ariston  begged  to  be  taken  as  one  of  the  commanding  of- 
ficers, and  offered  himself  to  equip  a  part  of  the  company 
of  bowmen.  Ion,  who  had  been  carried  to  the  Harbour  of 
Zea  in  a  litter,  gave  Timoleon  a  hearty  embrace.  "It  is 
none  of  my  business,  nor  that  of  any  one's,  where  you  have 
found  the  capital  to  purchase  and  fit  out  as  perfect  a  boat. 
But  pray  believe  in  my  delight  in  your  commanding  as  fine 
a  vessel!  It  is  indeed  beautiful,  in  every  particular.  By 
the  way,  I  see  your  own  particular  shield  is  the  oval 
shape  — " 

"  Yes,"  Timoleon  quickly  replied  with  obvious  relief,  as 
though  Ion's  generous  praises  brought  a  sense  of  restraint 
—  for  even  Timoleon,  hardened  though  he  was  to  most  nice 
points  of  honour,  could  not  preserve  a  perfect  indurability 
before  the  victim  whose  wounds  had  been  the  price  of  his 
prize-money,  "  Yes,  I  like  that  illeptical  form  —  it  seems 
to  me  to  be  the  most  workable  of  all."  And  Timoleon 
proceeded  to  prove,  by  quick  demonstration,  how  a  shield 
that  was  as  tall  as  a  man  and  one  copied  after  the  human 
shape,  was,  indeed,  the  best  fitted  to  offer  protection. 

Yet  in  spite  of  Timoleon's  ability  to  display,  proudly, 
magnificent  armour,  and  a  ship  as  complete  as  any,  his  war- 
like ardour,  as  the  days  went  on,  sensibly  diminished. 

Maia's  amazing  revelations  kept  ringing  in  his  ears.  He 
was  actually  turning  superstitious.  For  once  in  his  life 
there  was  a  something  within  stronger  than  his  will ;  "  the 


THE  VOICE  OF  FATE  34I 

divine  sign  "  Socrates  was  forever  boasting  about,  was  being 
upheld  before  him.  He  too,  to  his  horror,  to  his  in- 
dignant despair,  heard  the  "  still  small  voice."  "  Don't  go! 
Stay  —  remain  —  the  expedition  will  surely  result  in  dis- 
aster." Delphi's  recent  awful  oracular  warnings  also  rung 
in  his  ears :  yet  what  could  a  popular  favorite,  an  Alicibidian 
partisan,  one  whose  eloquence  had  helped,  and  mightily,  to 
rouse  the  people  to  war  —  what  could  one  whose  shouting 
had  been  loudest,  do  ?  His  only  course  was  to  go  on,  to  the 
end,  whatever  the  awful  end  might  be. 

Thus  the  day  dawned  that  was  to  be  the  last  before  the 
sailing  of  the  fleet. 

Timoleon  went  early  to  announce  the  news  to  Maia. 
The  fleet  was  to  sail  on  the  morrow,  at  dawn.  All  Athens, 
he  heard,  was  to  go  to  the  quais  to  witness  the  departure. 
This  might  be  the  one  chance  for  Maia  to  see  Ion,  and  this 
he  had  come  to  tell  her. 

Timoleon  entered  the  peristyle  with  the  first  breaking  of 
the  day.  He  was  pale,  distraught.  Like  Socrates,  his  eyes 
rolled.  Unlike  the  great  philosopher,  he  had  few,  if  any 
words  to  say.  He  walked  and  talked  as  might  one  under  a 
spell. 

His  walking,  with  Maia  beside  him,  was  done  in  the 
garden.  Here  the  breaking  lights  of  the  day  were  beauti- 
ful to  watch.  Between  the  thick  tree-branches,  Hymettus 
was  wearing  its  morning  veils  of  mist,  and  towards  the  west, 
the  Acropolis  was  showing  its  purple  and  saffron  tinting. 

Neither  Maia  nor  Timoleon  were  thinking  of  the  glories 
of  the  dawn.  Maia  was  devouring  Timoleon's  words,  for 
he  talked  now,  of  Ion.  She  heard  the  news  of  the  de- 
parture of  the  fleet  with  an  almost  unmoved  face.  Ion  was 
to  be  there  —  upon  the  quais!  She  should  see  him!  She 
might  hope  even  to  have  speech  with  him!  The  very 
thought  made  her  faint  with  joy, 


342          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

"  Timoleon,  do  this  for  me,"  she  laid  a  hand  on  her 
friend's  shoulder. 

Timoleon  started,  for  the  spell  of  thought  was  again  upon 
him.  But  his  mind  was  clear  as  he  met  Maia's  moved  face 
and  her  troubled,  yet  glowing  eyes. 

"  Whatever  you  wish  done,  'tis  done  already,  dear  Maia, 
as  you  well  know,"  he  answered,  gently.  What  a  dear 
woman  it  was,  to  be  thus  wrought  upon  by  love!  And 
he  sighed,  as  he  inwardly  voiced  the  thought.  Could 
women,  indeed,  love  thus,  as  Maia  loved?  He  wondered. 
What  was  the  dear  creature  saying  ? 

"  Tell  Ion,  from  me,  I  shall  be  on  the  quais.  Let  him 
look  for  Socrates,  for  Euripides  —  they  are  —  it  has  long 
since  been  agreed  they  are  to  be  my  companions.  They  go 
down  in  my  town  cart.  We  shall  start  long  before  dawn." 

"  Your  company  is  always  of  the  noblest  —  Maia."  In 
Timoleon's  best  days,  the  remark  would  have  been  uttered 
satirically.  But  the  year's  suffering  and  experience  had 
wrought  a  great  change.  Satire  seemed  now  a  poor  weapon. 

Maia's  answer  proved  the  changes  that  had  come  to  her. 
"  Dear  Timoleon,  have  you  not  noticed  that  if  one  love 
nobly  —  if  Aphrodite  Ourania  be  our  choice,  the  best  alone 
is  good  enough  ?  That  is  what  love  teaches  —  I  think  —  to 
live  nobly." 

The  exultation  in  Maia's  face  matched  her  voice.  Ti- 
moleon studied  Maia  and  her  impassioned  look  as  he  might 
the  scroll  of  a  new  book.  Once  more  he  sighed,  as  he  made 
answer,  "  '  Tis  news  to  me  —  I  have  not  met  women  who 
love  thus.  Plutos  and  Aphrodite  appear  to  be  the  gods 
most  truly  worshiped.  You  —  Ion  —  you  are  both  fortu- 
nate." 

Then,  after  a  short  pause  he  added  "And  I  am  glad 
you  and  Ion  are  to  meet.  It  will  gladden  his  departure." 

He  thereupon  took  her  slim  hand  in  his.     He  lifted  both 


THE  VOICE  OF  FATE  343 

as    he    pointed    to    the    now    empurpled    Roch    that   shone 
through  the  dark  branches. 

"  Dear  woman  and  friend  —  you  are  thinking  of  your 
lover  —  don't  start !  I  have  known  of  your  love  long  since 
—  dull  indeed  should  I  have  been  not  to  guess  this  mystery 
of  your  life!  But  'tis  not  of  love  I  am  thinking"  —  he 
paused,  with  his  eyes  still  held  aloft. 

"And  of  what  are  you  thinking,  Timoleon?" 

' 'Tis  of  that!  "  he  thrust  their  two  interlocked  hands 
forward,  upward,  "  I  am  wondering  if  ever  again  I  shall 
stand  thus,  in  an  Athenian  garden,  with  a  lovely  woman  be- 
side me.  If  ever  I  shall  see  the  dawn  break,  upon  Hymettus 
and  the  Citadel!  If  ever,  Oh  —  Maia!  Maia!  Why  did 
you  tell  me  your  awful  prophetic  tale?  Why  did  Delphi 
utter  warning?  Why  did  the  Hermae  fall?  Call  me  cow- 
ard, unmanly,  untrue,  weak  as  a  woman  —  all  you  will — 
but  pity  me!  for  I  can  only  cry  'Me  Miserable!'  to  my 
doubting  heart."  Timoleon's  impassioned  confession  was 
ended  upon  the  dimpled  feet  of  the  Graces.  For  their  statue 
stood  beside  him. 

Maia  comforted  him ;  she  even  caressed  him ;  and  she  trum- 
petted  Athens'  might  and  magnificence  into  Timoleon's  de- 
spairing ears.  But  the  tears  that  he  was  not  ashamed  to  let 
fall,  were  only  dried  when  the  next  visitor  appeared. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  Timoleon's  strange  outburst,  and  the  mem- 
ory of  his  tremulous  fear,  Maia  walked  upon  the  planes 
of  exquisite  light.  For  every  moment  of  living  now  drew 
her  nearer  to  Ion. 


Chapter  XXX 

THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  FLEET 

DOWN  from  hills  and  mountain  slopes,  far  as  the  eye  coul3 
see,  in  the  violet  blue  of  the  dawn,  slow-moving  masses, 
trailing  between  vineyards  and  olive  orchards,  resolved  them- 
selves into  strings  of  asses  or  mule-carts,  crowded  with  peas- 
ants. All  heads  were  turned  in  one  direction. 

The  port  and  quais  of  Piraeus  were  the  goal  for  the  coun- 
try folk. 

As  the  trails  neared  the  plain,  the  resonant  Attic  voices 
chorussed  laughter,  jests,  and  greetings.  White  goat's  skin 
coats,  peaked  caps,  embroidered  chitons,  coarse  but  brilliant 
of  hue,  began  to  spot,  with  ever-moving  flashes  of  colour, 
ripened  grain  fields  and  grey-green  olive  groves. 

Above  the  gay  robes,  the  women's  faces  wore  sad  or  sober 
looks.  It  was  the  husbands,  fathers,  and  lads  who  shouted 
coarse  jests,  or  sent  up  the  wild  catch  of  a  war-pason,  start- 
ling timid  sheep  to  affrighted  gamboling. 

The  women,  for  the  most  part,  sat  stiffened  in  grief. 
Here  and  there,  along  the  trail,  a  wrinkled  crone  wiped, 
furtively,  the  slow-dropping  tear.  Young  wives  let  the 
bright  rain  fall  unheeding.  Scarce  one  among  these  sor- 
rowing shapes,  but  counted  husband,  son,  brother,  or  father 
among  the  ships'  crews  or  bow-men.  Promised  spoils  and 
money  had  lost,  on  this  eve  of  departure,  their  intoxicating 
effect.  The  awful  realities  of  prolonged  absence,  of  possi- 
ble slavery,  or  death,  loomed  large  through  the  dawn. 

"  Come!  dry  thy  foolish  tears,"  cried  a  ruddy-beaked  peas- 
ant to  his  wife.  Both  were  sitting  sideways  on  a  stout  ass 

344 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  FLEET       345 

whose  vigorous  strides  made  the  four  human  legs  swing 
from  side  to  side.  "  The  lad  will  come  home  rich  as  a  Per- 
sian. You'll  be  wearing  naught  but  Coan  robes,  in  six 
month's  time."  The  man  laughed  at  the  comical  thought. 
He  tightened  his  arm  about  the  broad  shape  whose  face  told 
of  long  years  in  the  vineyards. 

The  lines  in  the  woman's  face  deepened.  "  Aye,"  she 
answered,  in  a  tone  of  bitter  sadness,  "  so  the  men  say,  but 
the  gods  for  the  most  part  are  silent  —  others  send  warning. 
Since  the  Hermae  fell  —  we  are  under  a  curse,  I  tell  you." 

"  Hum  —  that's  like  a  woman.  Seeing  curses  and  bad 
omens  in  the  fall  of  a  leaf  or  a  statue!  Lucky  we  men  are 
stouter  of  heart,  with  courage  enough  for  two,  or  there 
would  be  precious  little  gain  or  glory  in  this  world !  There ! 
don't  fidget,  or  the  sack  will  fall !  "  cried  the  farmer,  who 
intended  to  do  a  bit  of  lucrative  barter  and  sale  at  Piraean 
markets,  after  seeing  a  son  off  for  the  wars. 

The  woman  re-adjusted  the  sack,  with  fierce  grasp.  Even 
as  she  bent  to  her  task,  she  summed  up  the  women's  fate. 
"  Oh-h  I  know  well  what  is  thought  of  us  women-folk.  We 
are  to  work  and  go  on  working,  making  men  or  cheeses 
according  as  the  gods  will.  And  in  the  theatres,  we  are 
dished  up  for  all  to  laugh  at.  But,  little  as  men,  or  poets 
either,  for  that  matter,  think  of  us,  we  read  the  signs  the 
gods  send  clearer  than  most.  Who  sits  on  the  tripod,  at 
Delphi,  I  should  like  to  know,  if  it  be  not  a  woman  ? 
Who  "  —  but  even  as  the  woman  warmed  to  her  theme,  her 
dolorous  tone  broke.  Straining  forward  she  cried: 
"Surely,  yonder,  see!  'tis  the  shining  of  golden  helmets! 
Ah,  the  brave  lads,  what  a  fine  show  they  make,  up  and  so 
early,  and  so  light  of  step !  " 

A  company  of  trim  hoplites  were  stepping  briskly  towards 
the  gate  opening  on  the  Plain,  that  led  into  the  long  walls. 

The  peasant's  eyes  flamed  with  pride  at  the  gay  spectacle. 


346          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

"  Aye,  'tis  a  fine  sight !  "  he  cried  out  lustily.  "  They  and 
all  Athens,  even  the  richest,  like  us  plain  hill-folk,  have 
closed  no  eyes  this  night."  The  man's  tone  had  the  relish 
of  one  who  feels  that  his  own  state  of  strained  feeling  lifts 
him  to  the  plane  of  the  highest. 

Few,  indeed,  there  were  who  had  sought  their  couch  on 
this  eventful  night. 

In  the  Critias  mansion,  the  sole  slumberer  had  been  the 
warrior.  Critias,  Hermione  declared,  must  be  fresh  for  the 
start  at  dawn.  She  and  the  slaves  had  been  busied,  during 
the  night,  with  all  the  last  preparations.  When  the  time 
came  for  Critias  to  don  his  armour,  Hermione  feverishly 
insisted  she,  and  she  alone,  should  be  his  helper.  "No! 
No!  "  she  cried,  wildly  waiving  the  slaves  to  the  courts,  "  I 
and  I  alone  must  lace  your  corselet,  dear  Critias.  Alas! 
'tis  all  too  little  now  I  may  do  to  make  you  feel  my  loss." 
And  the  tears  fell,  as  she  bent  over  to  place  the  leathern 
armour  that  it  might  come  rightly  to  meet  its  fastenings. 

As  she  deftly  fingered  straps  and  buckles,  abjurations, 
pleadings,  loving  thoughts,  crowded  to  her  trembling  lip. 

"  Darling  Critias,  you  must  remember,  that,  soldier  and 
commander  though  you  are,  yet  you  are  not  Ion's  age.  Even 
in  Corcyra  the  winds  on  the  sea,  at  dawn,  are  cold,  at  times. 
Promise  to  wear  your  chlamys." 

"  Yes,  yes,  never  fear,  sweet  Hermione,  I  shall  keep  your 
warning  in  mind.  Thrasybulous  and  Ion  will  be  near,  they 
will  look  after  my  health." 

Hermione  smiled.  In  the  height  of  her  fever  of  anxiety, 
the  thought  of  her  athletic  son's  taking  precautionary  meas- 
ures, for  any  one's  health,  aroused  comical  thoughts.  She 
kissed  Critias,  even  as  she  smiled.  To  find  aught  but 
tragedy  at  this  time  of  sorrowful  parting  seemed  sacrilege. 

Critias  returned  the  kiss,  though  he  was  in  the  act  of 
raising  the  mirror  to  see  how  his  helmet  sat. 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  FLEET      347 

He  stood  at  his  tallest.  He  felt  the  pleasant  fall  of  the 
leather  straps  along  his  thighs.  "  Ah-h,"  he  cried,  with 
brightening  eye,  his  ears  catching  an  agreeable  sound,  "  I 
hear  Socius  and  the  slaves  —  they  are  leading  the  charger 
forth.  Come,  dear  one,  Ion  will  soon  be  here.  Call  Sera- 
pion,  and  Myrto,  and  the  slaves.  We  must  not  miss  our 
prayers." 

Critias  exchanged  his  helmet  for  a  wreath.  After  purify- 
ing himself,  with  lustral  water,  he  proceeded  to  the  altar. 

With  Hermione,  Serapion,  and  Myrto  beside  him,  and 
the  assembled  household  immediately  behind,  Critias  gave 
the  signal  for  the  devotional  moment.  All  arms  and  hands 
were  uplifted.  Critias's  voice  filled  the  court.  He  prayed 
as  none  had  ever  heard  him  pray  before.  He  invoked  the 
protection  of  Zeus  Herkios  on  those  he  left  behind  —  he 
invoked  the  help  and  aid  of  each  one  of  the  household  gods 
on  him  "  who  went  forth  to  fight  for  the  gods  and  for  their 
temples." 

WTien  his  voice  rose,  in  passionate  entreaty,  to  implore 
Mighty  Zeus  to  send  him  "  home,  back  again  to  his  beloved 
wife  and  children,  well,  sound  of  mind  and  limb,"  his  voice 
broke  upon  his  lip.  The  terrors  of  war  took  shapes  of 
horror  never  before  fully  defined.  The  possibility  of  re- 
turning, bereft  of  any  one  of  his  loved  and  carefully  pre- 
served parts,  loomed  up  as  the  most  appalling  disaster  that 
could  befall  Athens. 

The  loud  sobbing  of  his  household,  the  slaves'  cries  sound- 
ing loudest  of  all,  confirmed  Critias  in  this  his  inward  con- 
viction. Who  of  all  those  going  forth  to  Sicily,  were  as 
wept  over  as  he?  Even  his  slaves  were  rocked  with  grief. 

The  slaves,  ever  delighting  in  emotional  excitement,  were 
indeed  weeping  in  chorus.  Asia  led  the  tearful  dirge. 
Though  she  had  no  love  for  her  master,  her  sensuous  African 
nature  rose  in  rapture  to  this  moment  of  drama. 


348         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Hermione's  highly-strung  state  made  her  grief  dry-eyed. 
This  anguish  of  parting  brought  a  pain  too  acute  for  easy 
relief.  A  new  dread  had  sprung  upon  her. 

The  awful  conviction  that  never  again  should  she  hear 
Critias's  voice  in  prayer,  never  should  she  see  his  form 
facing  the  household  gods  —  this  inward  horror  had  risen 
up  to  dim  Critias's  actual  shape.  Above  the  altar,  as  though 
hovering  in  visible  form,  Hermione  had  all  but  heard  the 
dread  rustling  of  the  Furies'  robes. 

She  turned  her  terrorized  eyes  toward  Myrto.  The 
child's  quiet  sobbing  proved  the  lower  divinities  had,  at  least, 
spared  her  darling. 

Yet  Myrto  had,  also,  seen  a  vision  of  agonizing  dis- 
turbance. As  her  father's  prayer  had  risen  up,  as  he  had 
prayed  passionately  for  safety,  a  dreadful  series  of  possible 
disasters  had  trooped  before  Myrto.  Suppose  her  father, 
or  Thrasybulous  were  hurt,  or  were  captured,  sold  into 
slavery?  Myrto's  young  heart  was  tortured  at  the  bare 
thought  of  such  calamity.  War  came  near  indeed,  now, 
when  one  saw  a  father,  a  brother  in  bright  armour,  going 
to  face  a  fate  many  an  ancestor  had  met. 

Of  Ion,  Myrto  barely  thought.  If  he  came  back,  un- 
harmed, and  her  father  were  alive,  she  would,  she  presumed, 
be  forced  to  marry  him.  But  before  that  far-distant  time 
there  were  long  months  wherein  hope  could  be  caressed. 

At  the  thought  of  Timoleon,  Myrto's  very  heart  stood 
still.  Prayer  burst  from  her  with  passionate  intensity.  Sup- 
pose dear  Timoleon  were  never  to  come  back?  At  that 
dread  possibility  Myrto  fell  into  a  spasm  of  weeping.  Her 
whole  life  stretched  out,  dull  and  commonplace,  before  her. 
The  sole  happiness  she  had  counted  upon,  in  case  of  sacri- 
ficial marriage,  was  to  show  Timoleon  how  good  a  wife  she 
could  be,  how  superior  to  Nausicaa,  although  she  was  to 
be  wed  to  a  merchant's  son,  and  sold  to  please  her  father. 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  FLEET      349 

With  her  tears  still  pearling  downward,  Myrto  turned, 
quickly,  excitedly. 

Who  could  it  be  who  was  entering  the  peristyle? 

The  tall  figure  that  pressed  forward,  and  then  stood,  as 
though  awaiting  permission  to  enter  the  court,  fixed  every 
eye. 

Myrto,  to  her  amazed  surprise,  found  herself  strangely 
thrilled.  Delight  and  admiration  kept  her  tranced  in  the 
joy  of  mere  looking.  For  Ion,  in  the  full  glory  of  his 
martial  splendour,  was  as  beautiful  as  a  god. 

Myrto  had  never  imagined  gold,  and  silver,  and  bronze, 
and  a  shining  helmet  could  make  a  god  of  a  Pirasan. 

Critias'  greeting  was  one  of  martial  lustiness.  He  was 
glad  of  this  chance  of  putting  away  unpleasant  suggestion. 
This  handsome  Ion,  resplendent  as  Mars  himself  in  shining 
helmet,  trailing  horse-hair  crest,  gleaming  cuirass,  and  pol- 
ished shield  was  the  very  image  of  this  war  he,  thus  far,  had 
allowed  himself  solely  to  contemplate.  The  whole  adventure 
was  to  be  like  this  striking  Ion,  of  dazzling  mien  and  suc- 
cessful feature. 

With  both  hands  on  Ion's  shoulders,  Critias  cried  out  in 
a  loud,  strong  voice,  "  Ah-h  Ion, —  on  time  —  I  see,  and  on 
the  instant.  You  find  me  ready.  Now  tell  me,  where 
is  the  squadron?  Do  we  join  it  at  the  gate  or  on  the 
road?" 

Critias  had,  indeed,  entirely  recovered  his  nerve.  After 
having  told  the  gods  what  he  expected  them  to  perform,  he 
felt  easy  in  his  mind.  He  had  made  them,  in  a  certain 
measure,  he  felt,  responsible  for  whatever  might  befall  him. 
The  gods  of  his  great  house  could  scarcely  forget  to  protect 
so  very  distinguished  a  member  of  his  gens,  and  so  valuable  a 
citizen. 

"  We  are  to  start,"  Ion  was  answering,  quietly,  "  from 
the  outer  Ceramicus.  The  men  are  already  in  the  saddle. 


350          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Your  horse,  and  mine,  as  are  the  shield  bearers,  are  at  the 
door." 

The  announcement  came  like  a  knell  to  Hermione's  ears. 
Yet  she  had  advanced,  with  a  smile,  to  greet  the  young 
man. 

The  tinge  of  pallor  on  Ion's  handsome  face,  and  the 
thinned  lines  along  cheeks  and  chin,  made  the  more  acute 
from  the  close  fitting  helmet  that  framed  the  beautiful 
features,  spoke  to  Hermione's  sensitive  heart,  moving  her 
to  pity.  This  pallor  and  thinness,  as  did  Ion's  slight  limp, 
reminded  her  that  but  for  the  long  months  Ion  had  spent 
upon  his  couch,  Myrto  would  not  be  left,  to  comfort  her 
own  great  loneliness. 

And,  really,  for  the  son  of  a  merchant,  this  Ion  was  most 

unexpectedly  magnificent!     His  dignity  and   the  lustre  of 

his  finished  perfection  made  one  almost  tremble  before  him. 

Toward  Myrto,  Ion  was  slanting  his  eyes,   even  as  he 

answered  Hermione. 

Ion  visibly  paled.  He  could  scarce  repress  his  cry  of 
amazement.  Caught  thus  for  the  first  time  unveiled,  the 
lovely  face,  upturned,  with  eyes  widely  disturbed,  had 
seemed,  not  Myrto's  but  Maia's  very  own. 

With  a  wrench  Ion  brought  himself  back  to  his  surround- 
ings. He  smiled,  in  an  absent  way,  as  he  felt  Serapion 
fingering  his  shining  armour.  He  answered  Hermione's 
questions,  every  one.  But  his  soul  was  in  a  turmoil.  What 
a  strange  inexplicable  fate  was  his!  To  love  one  woman, 
with  every  force  and  passion  of  one's  soul  and  body,  and 
to  be  promised  in  marrriage  to  the  other  —  to  her  who  was 
living  Maia  in  the  bud! 

Ion  felt  Critias  grasping  his  arm.  He  heard,  as  from  a 
distance,  the  latter's  indulgent,  benedictory  tones:  Critias 
was  pushing  him  onward,  toward  Myrto,  who  paled  and 
shrank  backwards,  as  she  clasped  her  hands. 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  FLEET      351 

And  Ion  stood  before  the  maiden  as  one  stands  in  a 
dream  before  unreal  shapes. 

;<  Take  her,  Ion,  my  boy,"  he  heard  Critias  say,  "  imprint 
your  kiss.  'Tis  no  time  to  stand  upon  ceremonious  cus- 
toms. Had  not  tricksy  fate  played  you  false,  this  two 
months  you  would  have  called  her  wife !  " 

Ion  had  suddenly  wakened.  With  Myrto's  face  uplifted 
before  him,  the  lovely  lashes  wet  upon  still  wet  cheeks, 
he  had  come  and  quickly  to  all  his  senses. 

He  saw  the  child's  trembling  lip.  The  sight  moved  him 
strangely.  He  bent  his  tall  shape  as  he  might  over  a 
flower  — 

"  Myrto,  sweet,  let  me,  pray,  but  kiss  away  one  of  those 
tears,  even  though,  perchance,  they  be  not  for  me." 

With  child-like  obedience  Myrto  lifted  her  cheek.  But 
Ion's  beautiful,  moved  face,  the  shining  of  his  large  eyes, 
and  the  perfume  of  his  scented  locks,  made  Myrto  feel  a 
sudden,  inexplicable  trembling  and  a  new  sweet  warmth.  A 
flame  swept  her.  Even  as  Ion's  strong  arm  encircled  her, 
Myrto's  inborn  modesty  fought  the  flame.  Was  it  right  for 
a  maiden  to  feel  thus  before  she  heard  the  bridesmaids' 
singing  the  Epithalamium  ?  Would  Timoleon  forgive  — 

Then  she  was  back  to  earth,  and  Ion's  ringing  shout  was 
in  her  ear. 

"  But  I  have  a  mind  to  play  the  coward,  and  turn  bride- 
groom! Sweet,  sweet  Myrto!  your  fairness  makes  me  long 
to  stay !  "  Ion  held  Myrto  by  both  hands,  at  arms'  length. 
He  devoured  her  beauty;  tinged  with  this  new  radiance  of 
feeling,  she  was  indeed  doubly  lovely.  True  Greek  that  Ion 
was,  he  found  himself  falling  fast  in  love  of  this  child  who 
looked  like  Maia! 

"Oh-h,  but  you  see,  I  shouldn't  like  that.  You  are 
much  more  beautiful  as  a  soldier." 

There  was  a  general  laugh,  as  the  family  group,  led  by 


352          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Hermione  and  Critias,  now  made  their  way  to  the  vestibule 
door.  There  the  women  of  the  household  stood,  looking 
out  into  the  brightening  dawn,  and  Critias  and  Ion  also. 

The  breath  of  Mars  seemed  to  touch  one  and  all. 
Through  the  open  street  door  the  horses'  impatient  stamping 
brought  the  awful  moment  the  nearer.  The  Epibates  were 
already  mounted.  Lances  and  spears  were  held  stifly  up- 
right. Persia's  lean  face  and  liquid  eyes,  and  Socius'  huge 
bulk,  both  men  encased  in  new  armour,  loomed  out  of  the 
tinted  dusk. 

With  a  half  sob,  Critias  drew  Hermione  to  him.  "  Fare- 
well —  fare  thee  well  —  best  of  wives  and  noblest  of 
women !  "  was  his  whisper,  as  he  buried  his  lips  in  hers. 
Hermione  felt  his  very  frame  shaken.  She  found  strength, 
however,  to  soothe  and  comfort  her  lord. 

With  her  arms  about  her  husband,  she  breathed  down 
prayers  and  blessings.  Above  the  sobbing  voices  of  the 
slaves,  of  Myrto's  and  Serapion's  now  convulsive  weeping, 
her  voice,  like  the  voice  of  a  protecting  divinity,  filled  the 
morning  quiet. 

"  May  the  god  of  our  fathers,  and  mighty  Zeus,  O  dearest 
Critias,  have  you  under  their  tender  care,  and  bring  you 
safe  to  our  home  altars,"  and  she  kissed  the  wet  cheek  close 
to  her  lips,  with  dry  eyes. 

Even  Ion's  lids  were  moist.  With  a  parting  tender  clasp 
he  sprang  to  help  Critias  mount  his  charger. 

Critias,  whose  emotional  equipment  was  of  short  theatrical 
duration,  recovered  his  calm,  as  he  stood  beside  his  charger. 
The  dignified  bearing  of  the  soldiers  holding  stiff  the  shining 
spears  was  the  very  tonic  he  needed. 

He  was  able  to  jest  as  Ion  and  Socius  both  bent  their 
strength  to  give  his  stiff  knees  their  right  fling,  across  the 
restless  steed's  bared  back.  He  sent  back  brightened  eyes 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  FLEET      353 

and  a  showy  smile  as  Ion,  poising  his  length  sideways  against 
his  lance,  with  a  single  spring,  was  in  his  seat. 

There  were  a  few  last  words.  Hermione  called  to  her 
husband  "  to  remember  her  signal  —  a  white  veil  waved 
three  times  —  in  air  —  at  the  quais ;"  and  Ion  had  swept 
Hermione  and  Myrto  a  brilliant  beaming  farewell. 

The  two  warriors  gave  the  spur  to  their  chargers'  flanks, 
the  lance  bearers  closed  in,  and  down  the  crooked  street  the 
waving  crests,  the  gleaming  armour  and  bronze,  glittered, 
and  were  gone. 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  Critias  and  Ion  spurred 
their  chargers  into  a  brisk  trot.  Critias  had  a  double  reason 
for  gaining  the  Ceramicus. 

Athens'  streets  were  filled  with  the  voices  of  crying  women. 
Those  who  were  not  already  at  or  on  their  way  to  the  docks, 
were  religiously  lamenting  the  death  of  Adonis.  Their 
dolorous  cries  rang  upon  every  side. 

Critias  felt  a  superstitious  shiver.  He  could  not  hold 
back  his  outburst.  "  Confound  these  dirges,  Ion !  They 
give  me  a  creepy  sensation !  Of  all  times,  for  a  great  expedi- 
tion to  set  sail  while  the  women  are  celebrating  the 
Adonaius!  I  confess  it  seems  an  unlucky  venture  —  what 
with  the  Hermae,  and  now  this  lamenting,  on  the  very  eve 
of  our  departure!  " 

As  though  to  hurry  away  from  ominous  forebodings, 
Critias  spurred  his  steed  to  a  brisk  gallop. 

"  Nonsense,"  was  Ion's  reassuring  answer.  "  If  our  fleets 
waited  for  every  omen  to  be  favorable,  there'd  be  no  wars 
in  Hellas!"  And  he  laughed  the  young  warriors'  light- 
hearted  confidence  in  the  force  of  arms. 

Critias  did  not  answer  the  laugh.  He  told  Ion  he  would 
meet  him  at  the  quais.  Since  Ion  was  to  head  his  company, 
he,  Critias  could  thus  take  his  own  gait.  He  real  hope  was, 
to  bribe  a  god  or  two,  by  secret  offering,  on  his  way  to  his 
ship. 


354          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Ion  and  his  cavalry  troop  were  soon  dashing  down  between 
the  great  walls. 

Ion  found  his  thoughts  strangely  confused,  as  he  rode 
on,  ahead  of  his  men.  Longing,  desire,  the  wild  wonder 
at  the  feelings  Myrto's  lovely  innocence  had  evoked,  and  the 
now  renewed  ache  of  pain  at  leaving  Maia  behind,  alone  in 
Athens,  together  with  the  welling  up  of  auguish  at  parting 
from  his  father,  all  these  crossings  of  passion  and  pain  made 
the  rattling  speed  at  which  he  was  going,  inexpressibly 
soothing.  Once  the  parting  over,  and  then  the  open  seas  — 
the  wide  unknown ! 


Ion  found  the  crowds  assembled  about  the  quais  and  colon- 
nades such  as  to  make  progress  all  but  impossible.  He  de- 
cided to  dismount,  and  to  work  his  way  to  his  boat  on  foot. 

Among  all  those  thousands  of  faces,  there  were  but  two 
he  longed  to  discover.  Yet  a  hundred  times  Ion  found  him- 
self stopped,  embraced,  and  blessed.  Every  god  in  the 
Pantheon  was  bidden  to  protect  "  him  who  had  conferred 
honour  and  distinction  on  the  Piraeus."  "  Come  back,  and 
you  shall  be  our  Archon !  "  "  Burial  in  the  Ceramicus  shall 
be  his  who  lifted  the  Piraeus  from  the  dust !  "  Such  shouts 
rang  in  Ion's  ears.  Ion  gave  short  smiling  answers,  and 
wrenched  himself  free. 

A  voice  cried  out  from  a  dense  group.  Thrasybulous, 
looking  a  very  Hercules  in  his  tall  helmet,  waved  for  Ion 
to  join  him.  Nausicaa  with  bent,  veiled  head,  and  Timoleon 
beside  her,  smiled  their  welcome.  One  might  have  thought 
Nausicaa  a  blameless  wife,  broken  with  grief,  as  she  leant 
upon  her  husband's  arm,  actual  tears  glistening  behind  her 
veil. 

The  old  provocative  grace  was  in  Nausicaa's  gesture,  as 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  FLEET      355 

she  half  lifted  her  veil,  to  let  Ion  see  at  least  one  pretty 
woman,  before  sailing  away.  She  was  telling  him  Hermione 
and  Myrto  had  decided  to  remain  behind,  in  the  carriage, 
on  the  hill.  "  Hermione  could  not  trust  her  feelings,  poor 
woman  — at  such  a  moment!"  And  Nausicaa  smiled  the 
sad  smile  of  conscious  superiority.  Her  tears  became  her. 

"  My  father, —  dear  Timoleon  —  have  you  seen  him  ?  " 
Ion  asked,  as  both  now  edged  their  slow  way  onward. 

"I  saw  him,  a  few  moments  ago,  at  the  outer  Colon- 
nade," replied  Timoleon. 

And  there  they  found  him. 

His  grief  consumed  Crates  utterly.  The  bravery  he  had 
shown,  in  the  earlier  hours  of  the  morning,  had  now  fallen 
from  him.  He  had  hidden  his  weakness,  in  among  the 
group  of  his  household  slaves.  At  sight  of  Ion  his  cry 
burst  from  him. 

"  O  my  son !  and  so  this  is  the  end  —  the  end !  "  He 
flung  himself  upon  Ion's  warm  breast,  as  his  son  had  neared 
him. 

"  Not  so,  my  father,  'tis  surely  but  the  stepping  forth  to 
glory!  Look  up,  dearest  man,  and  let  me  kiss  your  cheek," 
cried  Ion,  helping  his  father  to  a  better  upright.  Now  his 
father  had  given  way,  in  this  amazing  manner,  it  behooved 
him  to  lend  him  of  his  own  exuberant  hope  and  a  part  of 
his  optimistic  strength. 

For  long  years,  Crates  was  to  see  his  Ion  thus,  flushed 
with  tremulous  emotion,  yet  clear  of  voice  and  eye. 

Ion  gently  unclasped  his  father's  hold.  The  time  had 
come;  he  must  speed  away  to  gain  his  boat. 

There  was  a  last  conclusive  embrace,  and  Ion  was  gone. 
He  had  a  dim  sense,  of  a  confusion,  of  quick  cries,  and  of 
a  sudden  silence.  His  father,  he  was  almost  certain,  had 
swooned,  his  slaves  were  bearing  him  homewards.  "  Better 
so,"  whispered  Ion,  to  comfort  his  own  heart.  "  The  dear 


356          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

man  will  be  spared  the  torture  of  seeing  me  sail  away." 
His  own  eyes  were  bedimmed  with  tears. 

As  Ion  pushed  blindly  on,  an  arm  and  a  slim  hand, 
gemmed  with  jewels,  were  thrust  forward,  out  of  the  crowd. 
Maia's  hand  lay  upon  his  wrist. 

He  saw  at  a  glance  that  she  stood  as  the  centre  of  a  group 
of  distinguished  Athenians.  Ion's  eyes  grazed  Socrates'  face ; 
his  worn,  coarse  mantle  was  close  to  Euripides'  more  costly 
raiment.  Socrates  was  talking,  as  usual,  and,  as  usual,  his 
eyes  were  rolling.  Euripides  was  using  his  eyes,  but  in  a 
different  way.  Neither  he  nor  Maia  appeared  to  be  listen- 
ing to  what  the  talkative  philosopher  was  saying. 

At  sight  of  Ion,  Maia  had  moved  forward.  Ion  felt 
rather  than  saw,  Socrates'  enlightened  expression,  as  one  who 
had,  at  last,  found  the  solution  of  a  puzzling  riddle.  But 
Euripides  looked  the  other  way.  And  upon  his  own 
beating  pulse,  Ion  felt  the  tremor  of  Maia's  clasp. 

In  closing  her  hand  within  his  palm,  Ion  drew  her  in- 
stinctively away.  In  an  instant  he  had  her,  close,  in  the 
midst  of  the  agitated  groups  of  sailors,  marines,  of  weeping 
peasants,  staring  metics,  and  strangers. 

The  two  were  as  completely  alone  as  they  had  been  in 
the  moonlit  forests  of  Arcadia. 

For  a  single  moment,  Ion  held  his  beloved  —  a  white 
image  of  grief  —  upon  his  arm.  His  eyes  must  feed  their 
hungry  lust  of  looking  for  one  last  intense  survey.  This 
was  the  dear  face  that  was  to  haunt  his  dreams,  to  warm  his 
days  of  chill  absence,  to  make  even  glory  seem  but  a  poor 
thing ! 

Maia's  broken,  plaintive  speech  now  filled  his  ears.  "  Be- 
loved, come  back,  you  —  you  will  find  me  waiting  —  none 
other—" 

But  the  lips  had  met.  In  the  exquisite  pain  of  that  meet- 
ing, no  speech  was  needed. 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  FLEET      357 

Slowly,  like  a  benumbed  creature,  as  one  who  could  scarce 
bear  the  weight  of  this  terrible  moment  — Maia  released 
herself.  The  dear  accents  —  infinitely  sweet,  struggling  to 
be  firm,  came  — 

"  Dearest  Ion,  you  —  you  must  look  for  me  —  when  your 

boat  moves,  yonder,  upon   the  steps  of  the  sanctuary I 

shall  look  till  the  last,  I  shall  — " 

But  the  difficult  effort  for  control  was  beyond  Maia's 
strength.  In  a  convulsive  agony  of  weeping  she  lay  upon 
Ion's  breast.  His  broken,  loving  words,  his  confident  breath- 
ings of  quick  return,  and  the  strength  of  his  own  moved 
feeling  brought  quieted  nerves. 

When  Maia  lifted  her  lips  for  a  final  meeting,  she  lisped, 
between  the  quickened  gasps  for  breath, — "  There  —  yonder 
—  on  —  on  the  steps  of  Aphrodite's  temple,  I  —  I  shall 
watch  your  boat  until  — " 

Once  more  Ion's  passionate  kiss  was  drowning  speech.  As 
she  released  herself,  Maia  found  herself  swept  backwards. 
Ion  had  led  her  to  her  friends. 

"  O  listen !  —  and  you,  dear  Socrates  —  take  care  of  this 
dear  woman.  She  is  worth  all  your  guidance,"  Ion  now 
managed  to  stammer.  With  the  sense  that  his  own  control 
was  ebbing,  he  ran,  not  daring  to  send  a  backward  look. 

Ion  heard  the  crowds'  parting  cries  and  sobs.  A  surging 
chorus  they  rose,  to  echo  his  own  great  anguish. 

From  the  admiral's  boat  there  came  the  clear  trumpet 
notes.  It  was  the  signal.  All  must  embark.  There  was 
the  mighty  tumult  of  clashing  armour,  of  rushing  feet,  of 
struggling  thousands. 

The  crews  were  soon  in  readiness.  The  oarsmen  were 
seated.  With  hand  shot  out  and  arm  ready,  they  were 
waiting  for  the  next  expected  signal. 

"Silence  in  the  boats!"  presently  chanted,  sonorously, 
the  Keleustes. 


358          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

A  mighty  stillness  fell  upon  the  sea  and  land.  Then, 
the  prolonged  notes  of  the  trumpet  announced  the  great 
moment  had  come. 

On  every  deck  the  flash  and  glitter  of  silver  and  golden 
goblets  caught  the  strong  sun's  light.  With  one  accord,  of- 
ficers, Ebibatze,  crews  and  marines,  and  all  the  mighty  throng 
upon  the  shore  turned  their  faces  eastward. 

As  the  goblets  were  lifted,  after  the  pouring  of  the  wine, 
the  voice  of  the  herald  was  heard,  rising  in  prayer.  One 
by  one  officers  and  crew  joined  in  the  praying.  And  the 
voices  of  praying  thousands,  from  the  shores,  made  the  clear 
Greek  air  ring  with  the  rhythm  of  passionate  pleading. 

As  the  prayer  ended,  there  rose  up  the  stirring  notes  of 
the  war-pjeon.  The  martial  chant,  sung  as  never  before  had 
Athens  sung  it,  rang  up  to  the  golden  skies.  It  throbbed 
against  the  conscious  shores. 

The  listening  hills  heard.  As  they  felt  the  mounting 
chorus  swell  to  triumphant  climax,  they  deepened  their  morn- 
ing blues,  and  the  dawn  of  the  breaking  day,  crowning  their 
tops,  showed  long  lines  of  sparkling  light. 

Never  before,  in  all  her  history,  had  Athens  invoked  the 
gods  with  such  unanimous  intensity  of  feeling. 

As  the  chanting  died,  the  order  for  action  rang  out.  The 
Thranitas  shot  forth,  as  one  man,  their  strong  hands.  Their 
arms  now  worked  the  great  oars.  The  noise  of  the  ryth- 
mical  beat  of  thousands  of  blades  smote  the  purple  waters. 

One  behind  the  other,  in  single  file,  trireme  after  trireme 
followed.  As  though  to  make  display  of  the  greatest  fleet 
the  Empire  of  Athens  had  as  yet  sent  forth,  the  Admirals 
spread  before  the  eyes  of  those  left  behind, —  before  metics, 
strangers,  Attican  hill-folk,  Piraeans,  and  Athenians  alike  — 
the  unsurpassable  splendour  of  the  vast  fleet. 

This  was  Alcibiades'  moment  of  triumph.  From  the  Ad- 
miral's ship,  he  raised  aloft  his  golden  shield.  He  flashed 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  FLEET       359 

the  sculptured  Loves  and  Graces  in  the  light  of  the  rising 
sun.  He  waved  the  shining  oblong  now  up,  now  down,  in 
mimic  combat.  Men  saw  clearly  what  was  meant.  Thus 
had  Alcibiades  fought  Athens.  Thus  had  he  conquered. 
The  sailing  forth  of  this  greatest  of  fleets  was  his  triumph, 
the  triumph  the  Loves  and  Graces  upon  his  splendid  shield 
typified.  By  his  all-conquering  charms  of  mind  and  person, 
in  the  teeth  of  opposition,  surmounting  even  religious 
fanaticism,  Alcibiades  had  won. 

Shouts  and  applause  greeted  this  the  central  figure  of  the 
expedition. 

Before  the  crowds  had  wearied  of  shouting,  a  sudden 
change  in  the  movement  of  the  foremost  vessel  elicited  fresh 
enthusiasm.  The  boats  were  racing  as  they  headed  for 
JEgina.  Till  the  last  vessel  had  rounded  the  Island,  Athens 
stood,  breathless.  Then  cheers  broke  out.  Long  and  loud 
they  rang,  as  all  Athens  strained  wearied  eyes  to  see  the 
very  last  of  the  boats. 

When  the  violet  blue  waters  were  at  last  left  empty,  the 
crowd  turned,  and  broke.  Sobs  and  cries  followed  hard 
upon  the  glad  shouting. 

Slowly,   mournfully,   Hermione  and   Myrto   crept  back, 
as  did  the  moving  thousands,  to  find  the  awful  spectres  of 
apprehension  and  dread,  painted  against  the  gay  skies.     For 
all  the  youth  and  the  manhood  of  Athens  had  sailed  away. 
Only  one  shape  lingered  on. 

Long  after  the  quais  and  harbours  were  emptied  of  life, 
Maia's  violet  shape  stood  erect.  Her  face  was  turned  sea- 
ward. Veil  and  scarf  hung,  limp,  from  her  hand.  Only 
once  had  she  been  sure  of  having  caught  sight  of  Ion's  hand, 
raised  in  answering  salute,  to  her  waiving.  Socrates  and 
Euripides  were  gone.  But  still  Maia  lingered. 

The  lapping  of  the  brilliant-hued  waters  soothed  her  an- 
guish. The  burn  of  the  Attican  sun  warmed  her  chilled 


360          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

veins.  Xerxes,  as  he  had  sat  on  his  golden  throne,  on  the 
bare  hill,  yonder,  had  felt  thus,  when  he  watched  the  waters 
that  swarmed  with  his  fleets'  immensity,  grow  black  with 
wrecks  and  red  with  human  blood. 

Maia  through  her  blinding  tears  seemed  to  see  blood  upon 
the  bright  waters.  The  sound  of  breaking  ships  also  crashed 
upon  her  ears,  as  she  sank,  sobbing,  upon  the  Temple  steps. 


BOOK  IV --SYRACUSE 

Chapter  XXXI 
A  BARBER'S  STORY 

Two  years  and  more  had  passed. 

The  autumnal  sun  was  kindling,  as  for  centuries  it  had 
fired  to  deeper  tones,  the  paling  tints  in  Athens'  coronal  of 
hills.  The  glow  on  the  Parthenon  was  as  golden  as  ever  it 
had  been.  The  old  wondrous  magic  of  this  moment  of  trans- 
figuration was  upon  land  and  sea.  As  in  the  festival  rite, 
this  flaming  torch  of  colour  swept  on ;  the  topaz  columns  of 
the  great  Temple  seemed  to  pass  to  the  chorusing  hills  their 
magical  lighting.  From  thence  to  the  distant  peak  of  Arca- 
dian Cyllene,  translucent  mountains  and  glorified  skies  were 
fused  and  blent. 

This  had  been  the  hour  when  Athenian  porticoes  and 
colonnades  were  wont  to  be  crowded. 

They  were  strangely  quiet,  on  this  golden  dying  of  the 
day. 

The  statues  of  the  gods  were  as  thickly  massed  as  when 
Maia  had  passed  their  beauty  in  review,  from  the  steps  of 
the  Theatre.  The  statues  were  not  more  still  than  were 
the  slipping  figures  of  the  women  who  now  hurried  onward. 
These  had  a  furtive,  timid  air.  Himatia  were  swept  close 
about  faces  and  throats,  and  the  look  of  these  faces,  from 
between  the  thick  folds,  seemed  to  emphasize  the  chill  in 
the  atmosphere,  that  enveloped  the  city. 

There  was  the  peculiar  brooding,  the  quiet  of  adversity 
in  the  air. 


362          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

When  a  citizen  emerged  from  a  side  street,  he  was  seen 
more  often  than  not,  to  be  in  armour.  The  clinking  spurs, 
the  rattle  of  sword  or  lance,  startled  the  stillness.  Slaves 
had,  apparently,  but  little  time  for  gossip.  The  roar  of 
tongues  was  sensibly  diminished. 

Yet  the  city  was  full  —  and  the  Attican  plain  was  de- 
serted. Farmers,  hill  folk,  trembling  wives  and  aged  moth- 
ers, as  were  also  flocks  and  cattle,  were  crowding  every  open 
space  in  Athens. 

King  Agis,  the  Spartan,  with  an  army  of  Spartans  in  trim 
armour,  had  driven  farmers  and  flocks  before  them,  to  seek 
refuge  in  the  city,  as  wolves  hound  sheep. 

Though  Agoras  and  Porticoes  were  emptied  of  loungers, 
the  watch  towers  and  forts  were  packed  with  soldiers. 
Athens  was  become  an  armed  camp.  Night  and  day,  every 
Athenian  able  to  bear  arms,  was  on  guard.  Night  and  day 
mighty  King  Agis,  when  he  had  a  mind,  swept  down  from 
the  heights  of  Dekelia,  to  remind  Athens  what  these  two 
years  had  brought  to  her  —  and  to  make  the  bravest  show 
paling  lips  at  the  awful  thought  of  what  still  might  befall. 

Yet,  men  still  wore  beards.  Whether  waked  in  times  of 
peace,  by  cock's  crows,  or  in  war  times  by  trumpets,  still 
will  beards  grow  and  still  must  they  be  shorn. 

One  barber,  at  least,  in  the  Piraeus,  drew  the  best  beards 
still  left  at  home,  to  fall  beneath  his  razor. 

Eumolpus,  long  since,  before  Sparta  had  taken  advantage 
of  Athens'  defenceless  state  to  invade  her  territory  —  Eumol- 
pus had  clearly  seen  where  trade  was  going.  The  Poikile 
was  as  bare  of  fashion  as  a  babe's  cheek  of  manhood's 
growth  of  hair.  No  barber  with  brains  behind  his  curly 
locks,  remained  to  face  seats  —  all  in  row  —  as  empty  as 
were  the  colonnades. 

Eumolpus,  therefore,  took  his  razors,  his  scents,  and  his 
perfumes  down  to  the  docks. 


A  BARBER'S  STORY  363 

Reduced  as  was  Athens'  commerce,  ships  still  went  out  to 
sea.  Captains  and  ships'  mates  had  a  fancy  still,  for  going 
aboard  with  trim  beards  and  hair  cut  in  the  latest  military 
fashion. 

Eumolpus  therefore,  though  far  from  happy,  was  still 
taking  a  mild  flavoured  content.  Not  only  drachmae  flew  his 
way,  but  news  also.  And  a  man  who  had  news,  in  these 
days,  and  from  reliable  nautical  sources,  was  a  public  bene- 
factor. 

News,  as  it  happened,  for  the  past  two  months,  had  been 
growing  scarce  and  still  more  scarce.  Yet  the  times  were 
never  more  ticklish.  For  the  second  great  fleet,  under  De- 
mosthenes, had  been  sent  forth.  It  was  time,  and  high  time, 
for  the  glad  news  to  come,  of  his  having,  together  with  what 
was  left  of  Nicias'  fleet,  entered  the  Great  Harbour,  at 
Syracuse. 

Long  since,  as  Eumolpus  was  tired  of  repeating  — "  Surely 
long  since  victory  is  ours  —  at  last.  Captains  and  seamen 
are  so  busy,  doubtless,  hanging  up  trophies  and  celebrating 
their  great  victory,  as  they  are,  also,  in  the  burdening  of 
their  ships  with  all  the  spoils  and  booty,  they  have  no  time 
left  for  home  despatches." 

This  optimistic  view  being  Athens'  hope  —  was  received 
by  the  barber's  customers  with  smiles,  if  those  sitting  beneath 
his  skilled  ringers  were  Hellenes,  or  with  doubting  looks,  if 
bound  for  Corinth  or  the  Peloponnesus. 

On  this  brilliant  September  afternoon  Eumolpus  had  a 
customer  exactly  to  his  liking.  A  ship,  small,  somewhat  bat- 
tered, having  met  rough  seas,  it  was  reported,  had  come  to 
anchor  in  the  roads.  The  barber,  among  others,  had  been 
down  to  take  a  look. 

The  coming  of  a  ship,  from  foreign  parts,  was  a  novelty,  in 
these  days.  And  every  ship  that  came  might  bring  the  right 
news. 


364          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

This  boat  had  made  its  way  up  from  Italy.  It  carried  a 
cargo  of  dried  grapes  and  some  neutrals. 

One  of  these  latter  —  a  tall  passenger  —  on  landing,  had 
looked  about  him,  with  inquiring  eyes.  As  he  lounged  on- 
ward, beyond  the  outer  Colonnade,  he  came  to  a  stop  before 
Eumolpus'  bright  shop. 

Eumolpus  had  watched  the  beard  coming  along  the  street 
with  the  growing  fury  of  a  man  whose  skill  with  a  razor  is 
known  far  beyond  his  city.  He  thought  better  of  its  owner 
when  the  stranger,  with  beaming  intelligence,  at  a  first 
glance  at  the  empty  shop,  showed  his  conclusions,  in  a  sat- 
isfied smile.  He  nodded  to  Eumolpus,  entered,  and  sat 
down. 

Though  not  a  word  had  been  spoken,  the  barber  approved 
—  for  a  wonder  —  of  the  customer's  silence.  Here  would 
be  a  listener  in  a  hundred !  One  who  could  read  the  highest 
professional  skill  at  sight,  and  who  could  tell  you  —  at  a 
single  glance  —  he  was  pleased  to  find  empty  chairs,  that  he 
might  not  have  to  wait,  was  surely  a  man  as  packed  full  of 
wisdom,  as  he  might  prove  to  be  later,  invaluable  as  a  dis- 
tiller of  news. 

The  stranger,  being  seated,  lifted  his  chin.  From  it  fell 
the  beard  that  made  the  barber's  fingers  fairly  quiver  — 
even  as  he  held  it  between  finger  and  thumb.  Once  his 
scissors  at  work,  and  this  Scythian  abomination  would  fall. 

"For  one  who  has  but  lately  come  to  Athens,  dear  sir,  it 
must  indeed  be  strange  to  see  her  docks  as  empty,"  was 
Eumolpus'  courteous  beginning. 

The  stranger  closed  his  eyes,  in  assent.  To  nod,  with 
sharp  edged  scissors  worked  with  amazing  skill,  was  out 
of  the  question. 

"  And  strange  it  would  be  to  us  —  had  we  not,  in  these 
two  years,  grown  used  to  worse  than  docks  as  vacant  as 
are  all  our  banqueting  halls.  Ah  well!  may  I  never  drink 


A  BARBER'S  STORY  3&5 

my  pay  in  pure  good  fortune  again,  if  it  does  not  seem  to 
me  ours,  m  spite  of  all  her  recent  misfortunes,  is  still  the 
mightiest  of  cities." 

Eumolpus  gave  a  clip  to  the  beard  that  sent  half  its  length 
into  the  white  apron. 

It  might  have  been  the  natural  feelings  of  a  man  at  losing 
so  much,  at  a  single  snip,  of  what  he  had,  perhaps,  con- 
sidered, mistakenly,  as  a  rare  ornament,  that  gave  to  the 
stranger's  right  eye,  slanted  sideways,  a  look  of  such  peculiar, 
piercing  fixity. 

"  It's  nearly  off  —  dear  sir,"  said  Eumolpus,  soothingly, 
"one  more  —  a  closer  cutting  will  relieve  you  of  such  a 
marvellous  growth.  Hem!  Well  — as  I  was  saying, 
Athens  has  proved  herself  to  be  all  she  claimed.  She  is  in- 
deed the  wonder  of  the  world  —  a  little  too  close?  Ah-h! 
I  see  —  you  still  think  we  follow  Alcibidian  fashions,  and 
wear  short  beards.  Dear  me!  Even  the  custom  of  the 
wearing  of  beards  is  sufficient  to  prove  a  man's  downfall! 
Since  Alcibiades'  fall,  if  you  believe  me,  not  a  youth  in 
Athens  would  dare  to  show  himself  with  hair  curling  tight 
about  his  chin!  The  Salaminian  —  had  it  but  brought  the 
traitor  back,  might  have  been  the  re-instating  of  that  fallen 
idol  —  and  of  short  beards.  But  now  —  well,  the  military 
fashions  show  the  dullest,  how  Alcibiades'  going  over  to 
Sparta  has  roused  Athens  to  turn  patriot." 

Eumolpus  paused.  His  customer  had  once  more  given 
him  that  peculiar,  searching  glance.  If  he  had  anything 
of  interest  to  communicate,'  why  did  he  not  tell  it,  instead  of 
looking  it  forth?  What  with  heating  irons,  and  running 
back  and  fro,  any  man  who  loved  speech  could  have  had 
ample  time,  between  the  firing  of  the  irons  and  the  curling 
process,  to  recount  his  whole  history,  and  that  of  his  city. 
This  customer  was  obviously  of  the  hateful,  silent  sort. 
Well,  one  was  not  an  Athenian  for  nothing.  Eumolpus 


366         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

knew  more  ways  than  one  of  prying  a  man's  lips  open. 
Obviously,  the  stranger  cared  nothing  for  Alcibiades  and 
all  that  his  treachery  had  brought  upon  Athens. 

He  would  try  him  on  another  side.  Some  men  answered 
to  the  religious  appeal. 

"  What  a  contrast  now  to  Nicias !  There's  a  man !  and 
and  there's  where  Athens  has  shown  herself  great  again. 
Her  trust  in  her  leaders  has  been  her  glory.  In  these  two 
years  how  she  has  proved  to  Nicias  how  Athens,  when  she 
loves,  a  man  can  trust  him!  What  other  city  would  show 
our  belief,  our  confidence,  our  patience?  Hurt  you,  Sir? 
I'll  take  a  cooler  iron  — 

"  When  Nicias'  letter  came  —  some  ten  months  since  — 
perhaps,  Sir,  you  were  not  in  Athens?  Well,  never  did 
Athens  prove  herself  as  glorious.  All  history  will  ring 
with  the  answer  we  gave.  Such  a  meeting  at  the  Assem- 
bly! " 

The  barber  now  felt  the  mounting  glow  of  one  who  has 
practised  the  true  orator's  trick  —  he  had  roused  to  excited 
listening  one  who  began  as  an  indifferent  hearer!  For  his 
customer's  eyes  were  fairly  blazing.  Talking  was  as  easy 
and  pleasant  as  to  hear  drachmae  pouring  into  the  box. 

"Well  —  as  I  was  saying  —  when  the  dreadful  news 
came  —  and  of  all  cities  —  to  Athens,  mighty  Mistress  of 
the  Seas  —  what  was  our  answer?  You  and  all  the  world 
know.  We  —  who  are  called  fickle!  Well  fickle  Athens 
having  put  her  faith  in  Nicias,  believed  him  when  he  told 
the  worst.  Fickle  Athens  swallowed  shame.  One  great 
armament  having  been  all  but  lost,  voted  then  and  there 
another  and  one  well  nigh  as  great.  Out  of  our  bright 
waters  it  sailed,  taking  the  last  of  our  true  manhood,  with 
clever  Demosthenes  to  lead  them. 

"  And  Sparta  was  here  —  knocking  at  our  very  gates ! 

"  I  see  you  are  asking,   Sir,  with   that  speaking  eye  of 


A  BARBER'S  STORY  367 

yours  —  how  we  have  stood  the  latest  —  Well  —  I  confess 
—  the  most  disturbing  news.  Well  —  we  know  now,  Syra- 
cuse, probably,  never  can  be  ours  —  but  there'll  be  a  great 
battle  presently  —  a  great  victory.  Oh-h  — I  don't  deny 
Athens  is  anxious  —  these  reverses  tell  upon  the  stoutest 
heart.  Still,  we'll  come  forth  triumphant  —  though  —  in 
this  war  we  may  not  humble  Syracuse  —  still  —  once  the 
real  victory  won — ' 

Neither  the  barber's  sentence  nor  his  curl  were  ever  fin- 
ished. 

With  a  sudden  spring,  the  now  no  longer  bearded  man 
flung  his  covering  from  him.  He  stood  on  his  feet,  looking 
down  at  the  mess  that  lay  there.  Scissors,  and  irons,  and 
perfumes  had  been  swept  to  the  ground  by  his  violence. 
And  yet  even  the  barber  made  no  outcry. 

For  he  still  held  aloft  the  more  recently  heated  iron  — 
for  safety.  In  all  his  experience  no  such  madman  had  ever 
before  confronted  him,  had  ever  before  terrified  skilled 
fingers  about  to  twist  coarse  hair  into  curl. 

The  stranger's  madness  was  of  short  duration.  His  breath 
now  came  easier. 

When  the  gentleman  spoke,  Eumolpus  saw  at  once  he  was 
of  good  birth,  now  his  beard  was  cut  —  for  he  spoke  softly. 
His  voice  was  disturbing,  so  quiet  and  controlled  was  it, 
for  one  whose  actions  had  been  so  violent. 

"  And  this  is  all  you  know  —  my  poor  man  ?  No  other 
news  has  reached  you  —  or  Athens  —  these  past  weeks?  " 

The  gentleman  spoke  with  such  ironical  commiseration 
Eumolpus  felt  his  irons  in  the  air  begin  to  quiver.  The 
very  fate  of  Athens  seemed  to  be  thus  trembling  in  mid-air. 

The  stranger  went  on  voicing  awful  fate. 

"You  know  nothing  of  the  fate  of  your  great  Fleets?  — 
of  the  blocking  of  the  Great  Harbour?  " 

He  waited  as  though  to  hear  the  barber's  indignant  de- 


368         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

nial.  Instead  he  was  facing  terror  —  a  man  in  a  panic  of 
fear  —  an  echo.  For  Eumolpus,  dropping  his  nerveless  arm, 
was  repeating  —  with  ashen  lips  — 

"  The  blocking  of  the  Great  Harbour?  " 

"Why  yes  —  that  is  now  stale  news  —  to  Sparta  and 
Corinth  and  Thebes.  Your  fleets  are  lost  —  man  —  to  the 
last  boat!  The  crews  are  all  dead  or  drowned  —  and  your 
army  either  cut  to  pieces,  or  made  prisoner  —  Nicias  and 
Demonsthenes,  by  this  time  —  are  food  for  Syracusan  crows. 
Your  Empire  of  Athens  —  where  is  it?" 

The  stranger's  exulting  words  came  to  a  stop.  His  ex- 
cited gestures  were  sawing  the  air  for  his  own  pleasure;  for 
now  'twas  Eumolpus  who  had  appeared  to  be  suddenly  and 
hopelessly  seized  with  folly. 

With  a  resounding  crash,  his  irons  rang  down  upon  the 
concrete. 

For  a  single  instant  the  stranger  had  thought  to  have  need 
of  his  arms  for  other  purposes  than  for  expressive  ges- 
tures. 

The  barber  first  shot  forth  his  head,  as  though  that  finish 
to  his  shape  had  no  connection  whatever  with  his  frame-work. 
Then  his  face  grew  grey,  of  unpleasing  length,  and  the  eyes 
rolled  wild  and  loose.  Words  or  cries  of  some  sort  strug- 
gled obviously,  to  form  upon  the  hanging  lips  —  but  none 
came.  Instead  a  sudden,  seemingly  purposeless  motion  seized 
the  man  —  a  wild  glance,  a  strange  uncouth  attempt  to  gasp 
or  groan,  a  last  haggard  showing  of  an  ashen  face,  and  the 
barber  whirling  on  his  heel,  was  gone. 

He  flew  out  of  his  shop,  as  a  stone  is  shot  from  a  catapult. 
The  direction  of  his  course  seemed  to  take  him  down  to  the 
highroad,  towards  the  walled  thoroughfare,  to  Athens. 

The  stranger  had  followed  the  mad  barber  out  to  the 
threshold  of  his  shop.  He  had  called  —  had  cried  out  to 


A  BARBER'S  STORY  369 

him  there  was  still  more  to  hear  —  that  he,  also,  would  go 
with  him  to  the  city  —  would  indeed  take  him  there. 

The  stranger's  voice  was  talking  to  the  golden  September 
air.  The  barber  had  run  as  ran  the  runner  from  Marathon 

—  to  tell  of  victory.     There  were  only  the  scented  shop,  the 
perfumes,  the  unguents,  and  the  steel  implements  about,  to 
prove  that  this  barber  who  had  gone  mad,  on  the  hearing 
of  two  months'  old  news,  had  once  been  entirely  sane. 

For  a  moment  of  talk  with  himself,  the  stranger  still 
lingered.  Some  one  might  come  in,  to  listen  to  the  end  of 
his  old  tale,  that  was,  apparently,  so  new. 

No  one  came.  The  Agoras  of  the  Piraeus  seemed  as 
emptied  of  life  as  were  the  great  docks.  The  very  air  had 
the  feel  of  misfortune.  Such  an  air  was  good  to  breathe  — 
to  the  greedy  lungs  of  a  gloating  Corinthian  —  for  such  he 
was  although  he  had  passed  himself  off  as  an  Italian. 

It  was  the  sign  of  Corinth's  triumph  and  of  Athens'  fall! 

"  The  Empire  of  Athens  — ha  ha!  Where  are  her  con- 
quests, her  ring  of  victory,  her  island  allies  now!  But  —  by 
my  beard  that  has  fallen  —  humbled  though  she  be  —  I 
doubt  her  good  humour  when  she  hears  the  news!  O  ye 
highly  honoured  Athenian  gods  —  ye'll  hear  some  groans 
and  curses —  and  wise  men,  I  take  it,  are  best  and  safest 

—  when  Athens'  roused  — at  home.     Hey  you—"  and  he 
called  to  a  man  slouching  by,  who  had  the  look  of  a  sailor, 
"  At  which  of  the  docks  now  does  the  boat  lie,  that  plies  to 
Corinth's  Port,  on  this  side?" 

The  man  told  him.    And  the  stranger  bent  his  steps 

thither. 


Chapter  XXXII 
TIMOLEON'S  RETURN 

Two  days  later,  a  fisherman's  boat  that  had  waited  for 
the  morning's  rising  of  the  Etesian  wind,  clapped  on  full 
sail,  to  round  Sunion's  rocky  coast. 

It  was  a  day  and  a  breeze  to  make  a  mariner  exultant. 
There  were  clear  skies,  every  coast-line  was  bright  and 
sharp,  and  the  brisk  wind  was  in  the  right  quarter.  The 
skipper  tied  his  sheet.  With  only  the  tiller  to  work,  a  man 
could  look  about  him. 

As  the  boat  shot  past  the  tongue-like  promontory,  some- 
thing stirred  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  The  man  or  the 
beast  that  had  lain  like  the  dead,  came,  languidly,  to  life. 

The  tattered  sail  cloth  that  had  served  as  a  shelter  and 
covering  in  one,  was  feebly  thrust  aside.  After  a  struggle, 
the  crouched  shape  came  to  an  unsteady  upright.  The 
form  was  that  of  a  man.  The  face,  gaunt,  haggard,  worn 
obviously  by  want  and  disease,  yet  showed  lines  that  proved 
race. 

The  man  turned  his  eyes  toward  Sunion.  The  shining 
of  the  sun's  rays  on  the  polished  columns  of  the  famous 
Temple  of  Poseidon,  now  in  clear  view,  seemed  to  prove  the 
eyes'  weakness. 

The  skipper's  fare  lifted  a  wasted  arm  and  hand,  to 
shield  his  gaze.  And  then  he  sat  down.  The  effort  to 
look  and  to  stand  were  beyond  his  strength. 

Once,  again,  however,  the  stranger  raised  his  arms.  He 
held  them  as  high  as  he  could.  And  his  lips  moved. 
Mighty  Neptune  was  obviously  receiving  his  due,  from  one 
whose  state  proved  his  sad  fortunes. 

370 


TIMOLEON'S  RETURN  37, 

The  skipper  looked  across  at  hfs  fare,  with  scarce  con- 
cealed scorn.  His  own  swarthy  skin,  piercing  dark  eyes, 
and  his  curiously  painted  boat,  with  its  foreign  look  and 
build,  proclaimed  the  man  no  Greek,  but  a  barbarian. 

The  Italian's  scornful  smile  said  as  loud  as  though  he 
had  spoken,  as  he  eyed  his  human  freight's  impulsive  de- 
votion— "what  good  were  Athens'  gods  now,  and  to  a 
ruin  of  a  man  as  shattered  at  this  —  or  her  Empire?" 

The  Italian  nursed  his  scorn,  for  it  warmed  him.  To 
bring  Greeks  thus,  back  to  proud  Athens,  made  even  an 
Italian  exultant.  Yet  no  scoffing  word  escaped  him.  For 
his  fare  was  precious  —  in  spite  of  his  tattered  state. 
Until  Athens  was  reached  the  skipper  must  wait  for  his 
pay.  And  there  —  well,  there  was  always  that  good 
friend,  one's  knife,  close  at  hand,  if  this  remnant  of  a  man 
must  be  made  to  eat  his  boastful  lies  first,  and  after, 
the  dark  streets  of  the  city  would  tell  Athens  an  Italian's 
way  of  dealing  with  a  lying  Greek! 

The  very  thought  of  all  this  made  the  skipper  let  his 
sheet  out.  He  brought  the  craft  closer  up,  into  the  wind. 
He  steered,  now,  very  straight. 

His  passenger,  apparently,  was  gaining  in  strength.  He 
stood  with  less  uncertain  firmness.  He  was  almost  erect. 
Neck  and  head  were  eagerly  thrust  forward.  He  ap- 
peared to  be  on  the  lookout  for  something  —  a  sign  of  some 
sort. 

Ah-h  —  he  had  discovered  his  object!  He  had  uncov- 
ered, though  for  one  to  call  as  shapeless  a  thing  as  that 
which  covered  the  long,  unkempt  locks  a  cap,  was  a  laugh- 
able absurdity. 

Once  again  the  Greek's  lips  were  moving.  And  he  was 
writhing,  as  though  in  pain,  or  as  a  man  twists  when 
overmastered  by  some  uncontrollable  emotion. 

The  skipper's  lips  emitted  a  cry.     For  his  fare,  now,  was 


372          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

weeping.  The  tears  coursed  down  the  deep  creases  in  the 
thinned  cheeks,  as  Italian  alpine-fed  rivulets  course  between 
gorges,  in  spring. 

And  the  passenger's  eyes,  fountains  of  tears  though  they 
were,  had  never  moved.  They  were  held  set  and  fixed. 
And  in  all  the  landscape,  now  Sunion  was  rounded,  only 
one  object  stood  out,  that  could  thus  rivet  a  man's  eyes. 

Far  out,  to  the  East,  Athena  Promachus'  bronze  helmet 
—  yes  —  and  now  the  tip  of  her  monster  spear  were  in 
sight ! 

What  was  there,  in  heaven's  name,  in  the  far-away  glit- 
tering of  a  goddess's  armour,  to  make  a  soldier  cry  thus  — 
like  a  woman? 

The  skipper  himself,  as  did  every  mariner  worthy  the 
name,  had,  of  course,  been  on  the  look-out  for  that  bit  of 
bright  shining  against  the  sky.  The  goddess's  spear  was 
the  sign  that  told  sorry  seaman  just  how  far,  according  to 
the  wind's  veering,  it  would  be  before  the  docks  could  be 
made,  before  a  stiff  pull  at  good  Chian  wine  and  fresh  figs 
were  to  be  had. 

But  for  a  man  to  weep,  at  Athena's  showing  the  tip 
of  her  armour !  Well,  when  a  man  was  hungry,  tears  came 
as  easy  as  to  a  woman's  eye.  And  his  face,  nobleman 
though  he  had  announced  himself,  had  clearly  seen  starva- 
tion close.  His  pinched  nostrils  and  wasted  body  told  the 
story. 

The  Piraean  port  was  finally  reached.  The  landing  was 
soon  made.  The  Harbour  was  as  emptied  of  ships  as  they 
found  soon  after,  the  Colonnades  to  be  of  loungers.  Even 
the  fare  showed  his  growing  wonder,  by  the  new  strength 
that  had  come  to  him. 

He  stared,  and  looked,  and  walked,  only  as  men  stare 
and  walk  in  dreams. 

The  skipper  perceived  the  Athenian  had  taken  on  a  new 
manner.  Tattered,  dirty,  -unkempt  though  he  was,  others 


TIMOLEON'S  RETURN  373 

besides  the  skipper  recognized  the  tread  and  voice  of  one 
well-born. 

The  empty  docks,  the  all  but  defenceless  Harbour,  the 
silent  markets,  this  languid  stir  of  life,  everywhere,  had 
obviously  overwhelmed,  at  first,  the  Athenian.  Soon,  how- 
ever, all  his  wits  came  to  him.  He  knew  where  to  go,  and 
whom  to  see.  He  led  the  skipper  to  a  certain  part  of  the 
inner  Agora,  with  the  step  of  one  treading  home  soil. 

He  asked  a  few  sharp  questions,  of  one  or  two  idlers. 
But  he  answered  none.  Yet  any  one  could  see  both  fear 
and  the  ache  of  curiosity  in  the  men's  eyes.  But  the 
Athenian  put  them  off  —  merely  said  he  had  come  a  long, 
hard  journey.  He  was  now  in  search  of  a  cart,  or  carriage, 
a  vehicle  of  some  sort  to  convey  him  and  the  skipper  to 
Athens.  The  loungers,  finding  they  were  to  gain  nothing 
before  the  closed  door  of  such  tightly  shut  lips,  left  him. 

A  farmer's  cart  was  presently  found.  The  Athenian 
and  the  skipper  were  soon  seated  within  the  vehicle. 

At  the  first  watch  tower,  rising  up  above  the  walls,  the 
tattered  gentleman  gave  a  sharp  cry.  Once  more  he  seemed 
in  pain.  The  sound  of  the  metallic  rattle  of  armour,  on 
moving  men,  within  the  towers,  stirred  the  sudden  colour 
to  flame  upon  the  wan  cheek. 

"  Is  Athens  in  a  state  of  siege?  "  he  asked,  wonder  in  his 
voice,  of  the  boy  seated  beside  him. 

"  It's  as  good  as  besieged.  The  Spartans  give  us  no 
peace."  The  lad's  tones  were  sulky.  "We  must  be  on 
the  lookout  night  and  day.  We  are  all  worn  out  —  keep- 
ing watch,  both  young  and  old,—  I've  been  in  the  towers 
days  and  days,  and  never  my  armour  laid  aside." 

"  How  long  has  this  been  ?  " 

The  boy  gave  the  tattered  gentlemen  a  curious  look.  A 
crooked  smile  curved  up  towards  his  ear,  as  he  said,  slyly, 
"  Only  a  soldier,  or  a  marine,  one  who  has  been  fighting 


374          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Sikels  could  ask  such  a  question.  All  Greece  knows  Sparta 
has  been  harrying  us  for  a  year  and  more.  Perhaps  you're 
fresh  from  thowars,"  and  the  boy  ran  his  eye  over  the  torn 
tunic,  the  worn  military  mantle,  and  the  sandals  whose 
thongs  showed  metal  clasps,  in  tatters. 

But  the  Athenian  could  not  be  drawn.  He  asked  more 
questions,  with  his  new  lordly  air.  And  as  there  is  every- 
thing in  the  way  questions  are  asked,  he  got  his  answers. 

The  military  life  quickened,  as  the  three  neared  the 
famous  City  gate.  Here,  before  the  nine  openings,  were 
the  first  signs  of  the  old  Athenian  bustle  and  brisk  move- 
ment. Soldiers  and  sentinels  were  everywhere  passing  in 
and  out.  The  slaves  at  the  Fountain  were  thick,  and  the 
filling  of  amphorae  was  long,  for  armed  men  —  some  mere 
striplings,  indeed,  others  with  grey  beards  —  made  the  task 
of  drawing  water,  for  women  slaves,  a  pleasant  one. 

At  the  gate  leading  towards  the  Inner  Ceramicus,  the 
Athenian  gave  the  order  to  stop.  Borrowing  a  rude  tablet 
from  the  farmer  driver,  he  wrote  some  lines  on  the  roughly 
prepared  surface. 

"  Take  this  man,"  he  commanded,  pointing  to  the  Italian, 
"  to  the  house  of  Timoleon,  the  one  near  the  lower  end  of 
the  Agora.  It  has  two  entrances,  and  one  is  a  sandal  shop. 
Give  the  slave  you  will  find  within  the  shop,  this  leaf,  he 
will  pay  you  both,  and  well.  Farewell,"  he  added,  "  and 
thanks,"  to  the  skipper. 

The  Athenian  descended.  He  moved  onward,  alone. 
He  drew  his  shabby  mantle  close  about  his  gaunt  frame. 

Scarce  had  he  gone  the  length  of  half  the  coppersmith's 
quarters,  in  the  precinct  of  Theseus,  when  he  started,  stared, 
and  stopped. 

For  the  first  time,  a  look  of  joy,  rapturous,  complete, 
irradiated  his  worn  face.  He  felt  his  knees  tremble.  He 


TIMOLEON'S  RETURN  375 

found  he  must  lean  against  a  small  but  newly  erected 
Hermae,  for  support. 

The  sight  that  had  thus  unnerved  him  was  merely  a 
woman-shape. 

A  tall,  graceful  form,  draped  from  head  to  foot  in  a 
dust-colored  mantle,  was  moving  slowly  toward  him.  In 
her  hands  she  held  a  covered  dish  of  some  sort.  Behind 
her,  a  slave,  a  Persian,  to  judge  by  his  colour  and  eyes,  like- 
wise bore  a  vessel,  that  needed  cautious  handling. 

The  lady  came  on  —  and  on.  She  walked  less  surely 
as  she  approached  the  standing  figure.  She  had  not  as  yet 
raised  her  eyes,  yet  she  felt  rather  than  saw  the  coming 
obstruction  to  her  path. 

She  had  now  reached  the  motionless,  staring  figure.  She 
lifted  questioning  eyes.  Why  was  her  way  thus  barred,  and 
by  whom? 

The  large  eyes  swept  the  gaunt,  yellow  face,  the  tattered 
shape  —  they  grew  wide,  were  fixed.  Then  the  lady's  cry 
came.  With  the  dawning  of  conscious  recognition  first 
horror,  and  then  a  wild  joy  rang  up  with  the  cry. 

The  covered  dish  she  held  had  dropped.  Its  metallic 
ring,  as  it  fell,  made  the  clanguor  one  with  the  sharp, 
fierce  cry. 

"  O  Timoleon  —  dear  Timoleon !    Come  —  at  last !    At 

last!—" 

And  Maia's  head  fell  upon  Timoleon's  lean  shoulder. 

As  Timoleon  feebly  clasped  Maia  to  him,  his  trembling 
kiss  upon  her  bright  locks  was  all  he  could  command. 

Over  her  bowed  head,  he  whispered  broken,  confused 
words  —  of  the  delight  it  was  to  see  her,  to  feel  her  near, 
to  have  her  the  one  to  bring  him  welcome. 

The  effort  to  thus  command  himself  proved  to  be  be- 
yond his  control.  As  Maia  lifted  her  head,  and  came, 


376          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

slowly,  to  an  upright,  it  was  her  turn  to  comfort,  to  sus- 
tain. Timoleon's  emanciated  form  swayed,  his  yellow  lids 
closed,  he  had  all  but  fallen.  But  Mago  swept  to  the  rescue ; 
he  and  his  mistress  were  bearing,  between  them,  this  piti- 
fully shrunken  Timoleon,  upon  their  arms. 

"  Quick,  the  wine,  Mago !  I  can  hold  him,  thus. 
Oh-h,"  wailed  Maia,  as  she  saw  Timoleon  open  pale  eyes, 
and  then,  at  the  first  touch  of  the  wine,  gulp  at  the  fra- 
grant cup  with  the  frantic  haste  of  a  starved  man  — "Oh, 
dear  Timoleon,  not  so  fast!  There,  thus,  'twill  thus  the 
better  revive  you."  She  purposely  spilled  part  of  the 
spiced  liquid,  lest  it  brought  a  new  danger. 

Could  this  indeed  be  Timoleon,  this  savage  creature,  with 
the  thirst,  and  the  wild,  uncontrolled  hunger  of  a  beast? 

Maia  bent  over  him  with  a  deepened,  a  more  agonized 
tenderness;  now  she  steadied  his  trembling  hand,  now  she 
propped  his  head. 

Timoleon's  face  wore,  at  last,  a  slight  tinge  of  colour; 
and  in  his  eyes  there  shot  the  familiar  bronzed  lighting. 

"  Can  this,  indeed,  be  true?  It  is  thus  you  return  to 
us,  after  all  these  years?  Are  you  —  Is  Ion — "  Maia 
breathed  softly.  But  no  answer  came.  The  flush  on 
Timoleon's  face  had  died  away,  his  cheeks  had  turned  to  a 
pale  yellow.  His  eyes  shot  forth  wild  looks.  "  The  earth 
turns,"  he  murmured,  groping  for  Mago. 

"  Could  we  but  bear  him  to  a  better  air  " —  cried  Mago. 
"  Shall  we  try  the  steps  of  the  Temple  ?  'Tis  no  distance, 
I  can  carry  him  thither." 

"  Yes,  yes,  to  the  Temple."  And  between  the  four  ten- 
der arms,  Timoleon  was  carried  aloft,  to  the  Theseum. 

The  wisdom  of  the  change  was  soon  perceptible.  Timo- 
leon began  to  draw  in  deep  breaths  of  the  freshened  air. 
He  managed  to  smile,  reassuringly,  into  Maia's  anxious, 
tearful  eyes.  As  she  held  the  cup  anew,  close  to  his  lips, 


TIMOLEON'S  RETURN  377 

he  murmured,  "  Dear  Maia  —  your  looks  and  care  are  wine 
enough  — " 

"  No  —  no !  eat,  drink,  dear  man.  O  it  is  safe,  now, 
to  pour  down  the  wine !  "  Maia's  fingers  held  the  cup ;  next 
her  trembling  fingers  were  crumbling  bread,  or  she  was 
tendering  a  sesame  cake.  All  the  while  the  unfelt  tears 
were  pouring  from  her  eyes.  Even  her  over-mastering  im- 
patience —  for  news  —  for  learning  Ion's  fate  —  was  over- 
whelmed, for  a  time,  by  the  pity  and  tender  anguish  roused 
by  looking  upon  Timoleon. 

Between  her  care  and  Mago's  help,  Timoleon  was  at 
last  as  well  placed  as  he  could  be.  Maia  had  propped  his 
head  against  a  column  of  the  great  Temple.  Behind  his 
shoulders  and  head  she  had  swept  her  mantle,  for  a  pillow. 
Mago,  it  was  hurriedly  agreed,  should  hasten  to  the  house, 
for  a  litter  and  the  slaves. 

Thus  resting,  fed,  and  with  Maia's  face  to  scan,  Timo- 
-  Icon  took  his  first  deep  draught  of  looking.  Eyes  looked 
into  eyes.  Each  read  there  the  story  of  the  pain  and 
suffering,  the  long  waiting  that  had  worn  one  lovely  face 
to  thinned  lines,  and  the  yet  untold  horrors  that  had 
brought  to  such  weakness  and  ruin,  the  other. 

Maia  moved  forward.  With  the  handkerchief  she  found 
in  her  girdle,  she  dried  Timoleon's  tears,  and  then  her 
own.  Timoleon  thanked  her  by  a  feeble  pressure  on  the 
hand  he  had  found  strength  to  grasp,  as  it  lay  within  her 
lap. 

"  Dear  Maia,  it  is  not  only  I  who  am  changed.  You, 
and  Athens  also,  have  suffered,  and  deeply.  Tell  me,  is 
the  worst  indeed  befallen  us?  Is  Athens  surrounded? 
Are  all  the  citizens  on  guard  ?  " 

Even  as  Timoleon  questioned,  he  moved  his  head  about 
the  curve  of  the  column,  as  a  sick  man  turns  upon  a 
pillow.  He  sent  his  anxious  eyes  about,  below,  above  him. 


378         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

As  though  to  seek  his  answer  in  the  security  of  the  beauty 
that  lay,  like  a  tranquil  palace  of  splendour,  below  and 
above  the  Temple  steps,  his  gaze  covered  the  long  lines  of 
glistening  statues  that  marked  the  road  leading  from  the 
Ceramicus  to  the  Areopagus,  and  beyond,  aloft,  it  swept 
to  where  the  mighty  Acropolis,  crowded  with  Temples, 
glowing  in  colour,  uplifted,  still,  the  Phidian  master-piece 
that  shone  forth,  untouched,  unharmed. 

"  Zeus  be  praised !  The  gods  still  sit  in  their  Temples," 
he  lisped,  in  accents  that  seemed  faint  echos. 

Maia  answered,  reassuringly,  "  Yes,  at  least,  the  gods 
are  safe." 

Broken  as  was  the  recital  she  now  gave  of  the  two  years' 
disasters  and  calamities  that  had  befallen  Athens,  hard 
pressed  as  was  the  city — "Since  Sparta  has  been  at  Dek- 
elia,  no  one  of  us  has  known  what  fate  to  expect  —  Yet,  O 
Timoleon,  still  Athens  is  valiant,  still  she  fights,  still  is 
she  strong, —  only  —  since  yesterday  — " 

Maia  stopped.  Her  eyes  were  reading  Timoleon's  face. 
How  much  did  he  know?  How  much  could  he  bear? 
Clearly,  his  own  story  he  was,  as  yet,  in  no  state  to  tell. 
Oh-h  —  dared  she  now  ask  news  of  Ion  ?  Surely  now !  — 

But  Timoleon's  hollow  tones  were  asking,  with  a  fresh, 
but  feeble  pressure  of  his  limp  hand  — 

"Since  yesterday,  Maia?  What  has  happened  since  yes- 
terday?" 

"  Oh-h  we  know  not  what  to  believe."  Maia  began, 
thrusting  her  own  great  need  in  the  background.  "  We 
are  all  in  a  panic  of  fear  —  your  coming  will  bring  us  some 
light.  The  whole  city  is  gone  mad  with  excitement,  and 
worse.  The  noise  you  hear  yonder,  from  the  Stoa,  are 
the  groans,  the  cries  of  rage,  the  tears  —  yes,  the  weeping 
of  strong  men  —  and  yet  no  one  knows." 

"Knows  what?     For  the  sake  of  Zeus  in   Heaven,  let 


TIMOLEON'S  RETURN  379 

me  know  the  worst!"  cried  Timoleon,  his  old  authorita- 
tive tone  cutting  the  clear  air. 

Maia  drooped  her  head.  Her  hands  had  fallen,  they 
lay  limp  upon  her  lap.  Then  her  voice,  sweet,  plaintive 
as  the  complaining  notes  of  a  flute,  came  — " 

'Tis  indeed,  the  worse,  if  true.  A  barber  came  up 
from  Piraeus,  yester  noon.  A  stranger,  a  Corinthian,  it 
appears,  just  landed  straight  from  Sicily,  brought  him  news 
of  our  defeat, —  of  —  of  our  great  losses." 

Maia's  stretching  eyes  were  watching  Timoleon.  He 
seemed  strangely  calm,  for  one  who  was  hearing  such 
horror. 

"  Go  on  " —  she  heard  him  say.  And  his  clasp  now, 
upon  her  fallen  hands,  was  firm  —  was  imperative. 

"  It  seems,  the  stranger  said,  that  our  fleet,"  Maia's 
words  were  scarce  audible  —  a  great  weakness  seized  upon 
her, — "  had  been  sunk,  in  the  great  harbour,  and  that  our 
soldiers  —  that  Nicias,  Demosthenes,  were  captured  or  — 
Oh-h  Timoleon  —  Timoleon,  ease  my  breaking  heart  —  it 
is  false  —  it  cannot  be  true  ?  Athens  is  not  lost  —  ruined 
—  and  —  and  Ion,  surely  you  and  Ion  came  back  to- 
gether?" 

In  uncontrollable  misery,  Maia  flung  herself  downwards. 
Her  bowed  head,  shaken  with  sobs  long  controlled,  lay  upon 
the  Temple  steps.  All  she  had  withheld,  all  she  had  en- 
dured, suffered  —  of  apprehension,  of  tortured  doubt,  of  the 
nightmare  of  dread, —  had  overcome  her  brave  spirit. 
Woman  and  patriot  were  crushed,  in  utter  anguish  and 
horror.  More  she  felt  she  could  not  bear.  Were  more 
to  come  'twould  end  her. 

Timoleon 's  voice,  pathetic  in  its  broken  strength,  brought 
Maia  to  calmer,  less  passionate  weeping.  She  managed  to 
face  him,  with  tear-stained  face  —  as  he  named  Ion. 

"  Indeed  I  have,  alas !  no  good  news  of  Ion.     Nay,  dear, 


380          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

wait.  He  may  have  escaped,  as  did  I  —  though  mine  was 
a  miracle.  He  may  be  taken  prisoner,  and  as  a  prisoner  one 
of  his  rank  ought  not  to  fare  badly." 

"  Was  he  wounded  —  hurt  ?  "  Maia  gasped,  dabbing 
the  tears  away,  to  see  more  clearly.  Inwardly  she  was 
seeing  her  way,  very  clear  indeed,  to  rescuing,  to  ransoming 
Ion  —  were  he  indeed  taken  prisoner. 

Timoleon's  answer  was  not  wholly  clear.  He  hesitated, 
admitted  that  on  the  last  day  —  for  yes,  the  fleet  had  been 
entirely  destroyed  —  the  fight  in  the  great  harbour  had 
ended  in  overwhelming  victory  for  the  Syracusans,  Ion, 
he  had  indeed,  seen.  Through  the  horrible,  maddened 
whirl  of  battle  —  and  though  he  was  blood-stained  — 

"  He  was  fighting  like  a  demi-god,  Maia  —  none  could 
resist  him.  For  the  single  second  I  saw  him,  I  saw  his 
sword  —  our  ships  lay  for  a  while  close  together  —  pierce 
all  who  withstood  him  —  he  struck  two  to  earth  —  was 
leaping  at  a  third  —  when  my  boat  went  down  —  was  cut 
to  pieces — " 

"And  'twas  the  last  you  saw  —  you — "  Maia's  lips 
could  not  frame  her  despair. 

"Yes,  for  as  the  enemies'  prow  struck  our  trireme, 
Alas,  yours,  dear  Maia!  —  a  murderous  Sikel  with  the  flat 
of  his  sword  —  stunned  me.  I  sank,  out  of  sight,  and 
that  saved  me.  When  I  came  to,  I  was  lying  on  yellow 
sands  —  far  out,  far  beyond  Ortygia.  Who  or  what  had 
carried  me  hence,  I  know  not, —  have  never  known.  But 
there  I  lay.  Knowing  my  danger,  hearing  Syracuse  shout- 
ing itself  crazed  —  knowing  such  shouts  could  mean  naught 
but  one  thing  —  a  great  victory,  and  our  defeat,  I  looked 
about  me  for  shelter  —  for  a  place  to  hide,  for  a  hole,  a 
cave  in  the  shore  wherein  to  crawl.  Oh-h  those  days,  those 
long  fearsome  nights,  the  terror,  the  surprises,  the  hunger  I 
and  then,  the  long  fever !  " 


TiMOLEON's  RETURN  381 

"Where  were  you,  dear  Timoleon?"  To  hear  brave 
Timoleon  voice  such  anguish  made  Maia  all  pitying,  loving 
sympathy.  She  had  now  dried  her  eyes.  She  was  grasp- 
ing Timoleon 's  lean  arm  —  her  eyes  shed  a  celestial  ten- 
derness. For  life  had  come  to  her  dying  hope.  Since 
Timoleon  was  alive,  saved,  surely  Ion —  But  Timoleon 
was  saying  — 

"  I  found  a  cave  —  in  a  rock.  There  was  a  curve  in 
the  beach.  By  rolling  a  stone  against  the  cave  in  the  day 
time,  I  was  safe.  The  Syracusan  ships  passed  close.  I 
could  hear  all  they  said.  But  words,  even  news  of  one's 
fleet,  don't  feed  a  man.  But  for  live  crabs  in  the  sand  — 
I  should  not  now  be  here." 

"Timoleon!" 

"Then,  one  night,— days,  weeks  it  must  have  been — 
I  saw  a  painted  boat  creep  by.  And  a  man,  a  black-eyed 
Italian  stood  in  the  bow.  I  crawled  out  of  my  cave,  I  was 
too  weak  then  to  stand,  but  I  signalled.  The  skipper  drew 
in  his  sail.  And  he  listened.  When  I  named  the  price  — 
to  Athens,  he  understood—  Thus  came  I  — am  here. 
Have  none  others  arrived  — are  none  escaped,  save  only 

me?" 

Maia  told  him,  he  alone,  and  the  stranger  yesterday,  had 
been  the  first  to  reach  Athens.  Nearly  two  months  had 
passed  since  reliable  news  of  the  fleet  had  been  heard. 

"And    that   poor   barber  —  Eumolpus  —  you    remember, 
he  whose  shop  was  in  the  Poikele-he  wishes  now,  I  am 
sure,  he  had  not  spoken.     For  after  having  told  his  great 
news  to  the  Senate,  he  must  tell  it  to  the  Assembly    and 
the  people,  maddened  with  a  sense  of  such  dreadful  t.dmgs 
called  upon  him  to  produce  his  authority  -  and  as  he  cot 
not -for  the  supposed  Corinthian  had  departed,  tl 
have  put  him  to  torture." 

"To  torture!"  echoed  Timolion,  with  a  shout.    As  the 


382          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

cry  came,  he  struggled  to  his  legs  —  he  was  hurrying 
in  a  helpless  way  to  adjust  his  mantle.  "  You  say  they 
are  subjecting  Eumolpus  to  torture!  —  Oh  Maia,  let  us 
hasten!  I  have  a  tale  to  tell  that  will  make  torture  seem 
but  a  jest.  They  must  release  him.  Come  —  we  must  go 
—  though  I  must  still  lean  on  you,  dear." 

Mago  and  the  litter  stood  waiting;  they  found  both  be- 
low the  steps. 

Timoleon,  with  Maia  walking  beside  him,  went  through 
Athens'  sunned  streets  to  where  the  Senate  still  sat,  wait- 
ing for  dreadful  truth  to  be  shrieked  a  lie,  on  a  barber's 
lips,  as  the  rack  stretched  his  limbs  apart. 


Chapter  XXXIII 

ATHENS  HEARS  THE  TRUTH 

TIMOLEON  was  far  beyond  the  torture  of  being  even  sensi- 
ble of  Athens'  attitude,  on  her  hearing  of  the  dreadful 
news.  In  Maia's  house,  he  lay,  for  days,  in  delirium. 
When  he  came  to  his  senses,  Athens  had  alas!  been  forced 
to  come  to  hers.  Other  soldiers,  other  battered  starving 
hoplites  had  crawled  back  to  Athens.  The  tale  they  told 
but  completed  the  awful  tragedy. 

About  Timoleon's  couch,  during  his  period  of  convales- 
cence, old  political  friends  quickly  gathered.  The  roar  of 
rage,  of  tortured  fear,  of  eating  apprehension  that  now  con- 
vulsed Athens,  was  heard,  in  murmured,  softened  accents, 
about  his  luxurious  bed.  The  generals  came,  for  fuller 
military  details;  senators  and  leaders  for  counsel,  and  all 
stood,  to  chorus  despondency. 

Timoleon,  from  his  sick  bed,  rose  to  brave  heights.  The 
evil  in  his  nature  seemed  purged  away.  He  who  in  these 
two  terrible  years,  had  faced  every  fluctuating  fortune  that 
war,  and  an  imbecile  commander,  can  bring  to  pass,  brought 
his  now  trained  powers,  his  disciplined  forces  and  real 
talents  to  the  help  of  dear  Athens. 

In  the  cool  of  the  early  autumnal  nights,  long  were  the 
talks,  plans,  confidences,  and  counsels  he  and  Maia  held. 
Maia's  grasp  of  political  affairs,  her  close  touch  with  Athe- 
nian life  in  its  larger,  loftier  aspects,  her  two  years'  friend- 
ship with  Socrates,  with  the  great  poets  and  dramatists,  with 
Euripides,  Sophocles,  and  Aristophanes  —  the  great  centre 
her  house  had  become  for  all  that  was  most  glorious  that 

383 


384          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Athens  still  could  boast,  made  her  advice  and  suggestion  in- 
valuable. 

As  the  days  wore  on,  and  Timoleon  rose  to  take  his 
place  among  those  who  sought  to  lead  and  direct  the  dis- 
tracted city,  Maia  it  was  who  began  to  sicken.  Her  nights 
were  passed  in  crying  aloud,  in  shivering,  in  telling  her 
people,  that  unless,  soon,  news  should  come  from  Ion, 
either  she  must  die  —  must  end  her  life  —  or  she  must  go 
to  his  rescue,  she  must  seek  him,  the  whole  world  over,  if 
need  were. 

"  He  is  alive !  I  tell  you !  I  know  it  —  I  feel  it.  And 
somewhere,  in  some  horrible  way  —  he  is  suffering.  I  see, 
night  after  night,  his  dear  face,  tortured,  drawn  with  tor- 
ment. Ah  my  god !  are  they  killing  him  —  slowly,  with 
torture?  Oh!  Oh  —  me  miserable!  What  can  I  do? 
Where  fly?  Oh  Mago,  think!  think!  Timoleon,  be  kind, 
—  a  plan  —  any  plan !  For  do  you  not  see  I  am  losing  my 
senses  —  here  —  with  folded  hands?" 

Folded  her  hands  were  not,  for  a  single  waking  moment. 
Laced  with  torture  as  was  every  instant  of  conscious  living, 
still  Maia  drove  her  distracted  energies  to  the  accomplish- 
ment of  brave  charitable  deeds.  She  and  Mago  made  end- 
less journeys  to  the  Towers.  Food  and  wine  were  lavished 
on  the  sentinels.  To  one  of  these,  to  Serapion,  son  of  Crit- 
ias,  Maia  was  mother,  sister,  and  loving  friend. 

Serapion  had  been  sent  back  from  Eubcea,  to  complete 
his  education,  in  Athenian  schools,  before  the  Spartan  in- 
vasion began.  "  Since  then,  he  would  not  go  back  —  and 
Hermione  and  Myrto  dare  not  return.  I  confess  to  being 
greatly  troubled.  The  slaves,  it  appears,  on  their  estates, 
are  not  to  be  trusted,  in  these  troublous  times  —  now 
Critias  is  dead." 

"  Critias  dead  ?  "  cried  Timoleon.  Maia  nodded  —  she 
went  on  with  her  tale. 


ATHENS  HEARS  THE  TRUTH  385 

"  Oh-h  —  and  have  you  not  heard  ?  I  thought  every 
one  knew  how  Critias  died.  He  made  a  point  of  making 
a  dramatic  exit  —  even  to  the  very  last,  he  played  his  part. 
Poor  father !  "  And  Maia  hung  a  pitying  sigh  upon  the 
tablet  of  Critias'  memory. 

Critias,  it  appeared,  had  been  appointed  one  among  the 
officers  to  return  to  Athens,  a  full  year  ago,  to  deliver 
Nicias'  now  famous  letter,  telling  of  his  defeats  and  straits 
before  Syracuse.  When  the  lines  were  cried  out  in  the 
Assembly,  "  asking  for  a  new  armament,  one  as  great  as 
the  first,  and  Nicias  begged  to  be  released,  because  of  his 
increasing  weakness  as  commander;  Critias'  voice  rang  out, 
above  the  reading,  with  loud  shouting,  '  'Tis  I  should  head 
the  fleet !  were  such  as  I  in  command !  were  we  oligarchs ' 
— he  cried  —  and  before  the  hissing  came  —  he  had  fallen. 
He  was  carried  off,  dying,  as  they  bore  him.  Poor  dear 
Critias  —  a  true  Athenian  —  deaf  to  reason,  proud,  tena- 
cious to  the  last  to  false  ideas,  to  wrong  convictions.  See 
how  we  clung  to  Nicias!  And  yet  the  world  calls  us 
fickle!" 

To  Maia's  sorrowful  cynicism,  Timoleon  found  no  ready 
answer.  The  dwelling  upon  his  old  friend's  sad  fate, 
brought  anew  thoughts  of  Hermione  and  of  sweet  Myrto. 

Maia  divined  Timoleon's  unuttered  questions.  His  sad 
eyes  she  read  now,  as  though  she  loved  him.  And  love  him 
in  a  certain  sense,  she  did.  For  she  intended  he  should  be 
nearly  allied  to  her.  He,  of  all  men,  was  to  be  Myrto's 
husband. 

To  this  end,  she  told  him  her  history.  Wonder,  amaze- 
ment, followed  the  telling. 

Maia's  tale  ended  with  passionate  outburst. 

"  And  then  —  when  I  came  to  Athens,  only  to  learn  of 
Ion's  betrothal,  of  his  approaching  marriage,  something 
hard,  cruel,  savage  awoke  in  me.  I  had  not  known  such 


386 

feelings  lay  at  the  bottom  of  my  soul  —  but  then  —  they 
had  not  before  been  awakened. 

"  I  vowed  vengeance.  I  prayed  and  made  lavish  offer- 
ings to  Hecate,  and  Hecate,  alas!  heard  me.  Though  I 
looked  upon  Hermione's  face,  though  I  saw  sweet  Myrto  — 
Ah-h  —  Timoleon,  how  lovely  is  innocence !  —  yet  neither 
my  mother  nor  Myrto  turned  me  from  my  purpose.  I 
would  make  good,  in  my  turn,  the  curse  that  lay  upon  our 
house.  I  would  prevent  Ion's  marriage  at  all  costs  —  de- 
feat fate  —  alas !  you  know  the  rest." 

In  tears  the  long  recital  ended.  Timoleon  comforted, 
he  consoled  her.  The  best  might  be  hoped  for.  The  latest 
of  those  who  had  escaped,  had  reported  that  forty  thousand 
—  surely  an  over  large  number  —  had  followed  Nicias  on 
his  hazardous  retreat,  into  the  Sicilian  gorges. 

Maia  put  up  her  hands.  She  shook  her  head.  She  must 
not  give  way  to  agitated  thought.  She  must  keep  calm; 
the  time  for  going  to  Serapion's  watch  upon  the  towers  had 
come.  Her  visit  and  Mago's  full  baskets  never  failed  this 
young  brother,  over  whom  she  had  watched  as  though  she 
were  Hermione. 

As  Maia's  slave  brought  her  mantle,  to  drape  its  folds, 
and  Maia's  worn  face  shone  beyond  the  close  wrappings, 
tightly  drawn  about  chin  and  cheeks,  for  the  day  was  cool, 
she  spoke  as  never  she  had  before  voiced  her  sorrow.  The 
pallor  of  her  face,  and  the  sweetness  of  her  plaintive  tones, 
affected  Timoleon  to  rare  feeling. 

"  Maia !  —  Maia !  —  as  the  goddess  says,  '  Lead  me,  you 
have  found  out  the  secret  of  moving  me,'  "  he  cried ;  and,  as 
in  the  dawn  of  long  ago,  when  he  had  lifted  his  hand  and 
hers,  to  point  towards  the  great  Citadel,  Timoleon  once 
again  enclosed  her  palm  in  his.  "  Maia  —  Maia  —  when 
women  love  as  you  love,  the  dear  gods  crown  hope.  We 


ATHENS  HEARS  THE  TRUTH          387 

shall  yet  be  a  family  full  of  joy.  You  will  have  found  Ion. 
I  will  have  Myrto  to  wife,  and  Hermione  will  have  two 
daughters,  instead  of  one.  Weep  not  —  to  such  eyes,  weep- 
ing should  be  forbidden." 

Maia's  tall  shape  bent  over  Timoleon.  Her  close  en- 
wrapped face  touched  his  cheek,  as  she  murmured,  though 
the  bright  drops  still  fell, 

"  Your  words  put  sorrow  to  sleep,  dear  Timoleon.  In- 
deed you  have  comforted  me.  Await  me,  here.  It  will 
ease  my  ache  of  fear  to  know  you  are  to  be  found,  upon 
my  return.  I  know  not  why,  but  all  day  I  have  had  the 
feeling  that  news  of  some  sort  was  to  come." 

And  she  left  him. 

Maia's  apprehensive  fears  were  verified.  She  returned 
to  find  her  courts  in  an  uproar.  Friends  had  come  from 
the  Pirasus,  with  terrifying  tidings.  A  boat  load  of  hop- 
lites,  who  had  miraculously  made  their  escape  from  Mes- 
sina, had  landed  at  the  Piraeus. 

"  They  report  Demosthenes  captured.  Nicias  immedi- 
ately surrendered,  on  hearing  the  news.  Awful  had  been 
the  slaughter  of  our  army.  The  Syracusan  swept  our  men 
down,  like  ripe  corn.  They  followed  them,  killing  as  they 
went.  And  now  'tis  but  a  handful  that's  left.  And  these, 
Oh  Timoleon!  Oh  Maia,  how  can  I  tell  you?  —  these 
few  thousands  are  dying  by  inches !  —  they  are  penned  in 
like  dogs !  —  they  are  rotting  in  the  Syracusan  quarries !  " 

Such  was  the  tale  a  grey-haired  general  brought,  from 
the  docks.  He  and  all  who  heard  him,  groaned  and 
moaned.  Even  the  strongest  were  not  ashamed  to  weep. 

With  the  passing  of  the  first  wild  outburst,  at  the  hear- 
ing of  the  awful  fate  of  Athenians,  a  curious  calm  came  to 
Maia.  Her  mind  seemed  suddenly  made  up.  A  decision 
and  a  grave  one,  was  to  be  read  in  her  solemn  face.  The 


388          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

low,  rich  tones  of  her  voice,  were  attuned  to  the  inward 
registering  of  a  vow. 

.    Until  her  house  was  emptied  of  the  agitated  crowd  of 
visitors,  however,  Maia  kept  her  own  counsels. 

She  begged  Euripides  and  Timoleon  to  remain.  When 
her  courts  were  solitary,  she  swept  her  friends  onward,  to 
the  pastas.  There  she  unfolded  her  plan.  Euripides  knew 
her  secret,  all  her  life  she  had  told  him.  And  now  she 
confided  the  project  she  intended  to  put  into  action,  to 
these  two,  who  loved  her. 

She  should  give  orders  to  Mago  to  go  straight  to  Corinth. 
There  he  was  to  hire  a  large,  swift  ship.  He  was  to  man  it 
with  Corinthian  seamen.  He  was  to  say  that  "  Maia,  the 
Corinthian  —  rich  Nirias's  former  companion  —  his  widow 
and  his  heiress,  was  turning  her  back  on  Athens,  since  Ath- 
ens' Empire  had  fallen.  She  longed,  in  common  with  all 
Athens'  enemies,  to  see  great  Syracuse,  to  look  upon  the 
brave  heroes  who  had  brought  Athens  low. 

"  Every  word  of  this  will  Corinth  believe.  For  in  her 
hate  of  Athens,  to  hear  of  others'  hate,  will  bring  her  joy," 
cried  Maia,  with  the  new  fierce  flame  in  her  eyes,  that  had 
dawned  there,  since  the  news  that  Ion  was  imprisoned  — 
in  the  quarries,  had  come.  "  For  I  know  he  is  there,"  Maia 
asserted,  with  a  convincing  calm  that  drowned  all  opposi- 
tion. '  'Twas  there  —  I  know  now  —  I  have  always  seen 
him  —  in  those  dreams  of  mine.  He  was  far  down  —  at 
some  great  depth — 'twas  from  some  awful  place,  dim  and 
dark,  his  face  shone.  And  his  voice  called,  '  Maia!  Maia! ' 
O  Ion,  beloved,  I  come,  I  come!  " 

Like  a  Sybil,  uplifted  to  celestial  heights,  thrilled  with 
ecstatic  joy,  Maia's  face  as  she  threw  her  head  back,  letting 
forth  her  great  cry,  was  the  face  of  one  transfigured.  Never 
had  her  two  listeners  looked  upon  the  like;  never  should 
they  again.  For  even  to  hearts  capable  of  love  such  as 


ATHENS  HEARS  THE  TRUTH  389 

Maia's  such  a  tidal  wave  of  emotion  comes  but  once,  in  a 
lifetime. 

Before  she  set  forth,  Maia,  in  calmer  mood,  bade  Timo- 
leon  do  for  her  that  which  she,  had  this  great  chance  not 
come  to  her,  had  intended  doing. 

He  must  go  to  Euboea.  He  must  see  Hermione;  he 
must  win,  if  he  could,  Myrto.  Above  all,  he  must  look  out 
for  the  fate  and  fortunes  of  these  dear  ones.  Their  state 
was  too  lonely  —  too  isolated  in  far-away  Euboea.  A 
man's  care  and  guidance  were  imperative. 

"And  your  history  —  dear  Maia?  Am  I  free  to  tell 
all?" 

"  Not  yet,"  Maia  answered,  having  deliberated  before 
this  her  reply — "There  is  nothing  to  be  gained,  as  yet,  by 
confession.  On  my  return,  when  I  find  Ion,  I  will  ask  my 
mother's  blessing." 

"  But,  surely,  Maia,  you  forget,  Hermione  will  consider, 
and  rightly,  that  her  daughter  is  still  bound  to  Ion.  She 
is  his  betrothed,  still,  remember." — 

Maia  gave  Timoleon's  anxious  eyes,  and  his  clever  face, 
a  peculiarly  intelligent  glance. 

"  Dear  Timoleon,  Hermione  is  not  to  know  of  my 
journey.  If,  in  a  month's  time,  I  am  not  returned,  and 
Ion  with  me,  then  —  well  —  then  the  worst  has  hap- 
pened. Get  Hermione  to  promise  you  Myrto,  if  no  news 
comes  of  Ion,  within  that  space  of  time." 

Euripides  smiled.  At  last  he  had  even  found  Maia  — 
wonderful  adorable  Maia!  out  of  whose  many-sided  char- 
acter he  had  found  traits  that  were  valuable  hints  for  sev- 
eral Antigones  and  Electras,  yet  Maia,  also,  was  now  prov- 
ing herself  a  true  woman.  She  could  act  the  heroine,  and 
yet  could  manage  to  plot,  to  play  a  trick  upon  fate!  How 
true  were  all  women,  even  the  greatest,  to  the  types  he 
had  presented! 


390          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Timoleon  being  a  man,  and  not  a  play-wright,  found 
Maia's  clever  suggestion  only  another  proof  of  her  amaz- 
ing ability.  Lucky  he,  indeed,  who  could  have  such  as  she 
to  call  sister! 

In  less  than  a  week,  Maia  had  started  for  Corinth. 


Chapter  XXXIV 

THE  QUARRIES 

IN  Syracuse,  the  first,  light  rains  of  autumn  had  fallen. 
Gardens,  fields,  and  parched  soil  blossomed  anew,  after  the 
scorching  summer's  aridity.  The  white  city  rose  up  from 
its  Harbours  shining,  glistening,  carrying  upward  the  spirals 
of  its  cypresses  that  cut  the  cobalt  blue  skies,  like  bronze 
lances  held  proudly  upright. 

It  was  the  last  day  but  one  of  the  Festival  of  the 
Thesmophoria.  The  city  rang  with  the  songs  and  cries  of 
women. 

The  chief  celebrants  were  singing  and  dancing  within 
their  great  building, —  one  carefully  copied  after  the  famous 
Eleusinian,  at  Athens.  Their  shouts  resounded  through- 
out the  streets  close  to  the  temple. 

Bands  of  worshippers,  whose  spirited  piety  called  for 
more  vigorous  outlet,  had  swung,  hand  in  hand,  down  from 
temple  steps  to  open  squares.  These  were  to  be  seen 
swirling,  in  frenzied  rapture,  through  crooked  ways,  and 
narrow  streets. 

Two  ladies,  one  of  whom  was  an  unmistakeable  Syra- 
cusan,  were  attempting  to  thread  their  way  up  from  the 
lower  city  to  the  Necropolis.  They  found  their  way 
blocked. 

A  band  of  celebrants,  a  long,  loose-linked  chain,  had 
stretched  hands  across  the  width  of  a  certain  street.  They 
sang,  as  they  danced  — "  Demeter  —  Demeter  —  Glory  to 
Demeter!  Sovereign  goddess  —  give  us  fair  offspring!  — 
beauteous  men-children  to  garner  thy  harvests  —  to  worship 

391 


392          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Aphrodite  —  to  hold  —  to  conquer  the  Athenians !  De- 
meter  !  Demeter !  " 

Round  and  round  sped  the  whirling,  half  naked,  mad- 
dened group.  Shouting,  clapping  their  hands,  their  long 
hair  streamed  in  the  light  breeze.  All  wore  thick  full 
garlands.  In  the  frenzy  of  the  dance,  wreaths  and  gar- 
lands were  now  tossed,  now  swept  from  brows  to  bosom, 
and  from  open  neck  to  swaying  hips. 

One  of  the  Maenad-like  circle  suddenly  clashed  her  silver 
cymbals  high  in  air.  She  turned,  swirling  around  the 
nearest  street  corner.  She  had  given  the  signal  for  the  ring 
to  break,  for  the  linked  hands  to  be  loosened,  and  for  the 
gay  band  to  whirl  itself  away,  shouting  as  it  sped. 

The  Syracusan  and  her  companion  were  now  enabled  to 
proceed  on  their  way.  The  Syracusan  stopped  for  a  mo- 
ment, to  puff  and  blow  out  her  breath.  For  the  autumn 
sun  was  hot,  and  the  narrow  street  was  steep. 

With  her  draped  chiton  held  tight  in  both  hands,  she 
stood,  with  hands  on  hips. 

"  Marvellous  —  is  it  not  ?  Saw  you  ever  a  Thesmophoria 
as  splendid?  We  Syracusans,  alone,  of  all  cities,  know 
rightly  how  to  honour  Demeter!  And  this  year,  the  dear 
goddess  knows  we  have  reason  to  worship !  "  The  woman's 
eyes  sparkled  with  pride.  She  craned  her  neck  backward, 
as  she  voiced  her  exultation;  she  must  see  the  very  last  of 
the  dancers. 

Her  companion,  a  stately,  golden-haired  beauty,  sent  the 
Syracusan  a  contemptuous  glance.  Her  tones  were  coolly 
satirical,  as  she  answered : — 

"  In  Athens,  the  matrons  worship  Demeter  in  very  dif- 
ferent fashion."  Then,  with  an  impatient  start,  she  cried: 
"  Are  we  nearing  the  quarries?  " 

"  Oh-h  —  you'll  know  soon  enough  when  we  are  near," 
laughed  the  Syracusan,  with  brutal  delight,  "  your  nostrils 


THE  QUARRIES  393 

will  tell  you,  before  your  eyes  can  feast  on  the  sight.  My! 
—  but  it's  sport  —  to  see  those  wretches  wriggle  —  to  be- 
hold them  squirm,  like  the  worms  they  are!  What  was  it? 
Did  a  bee  sting  you?  They  are  plentiful  here,  and  so  are 
the  flies.  Ha!  Ha!  flies  don't  lade  for  food  now!  — 
Well  —  and  what  makes  you  stumble?  One  would  think 
you  had  the  palsy.  See  —  there  they  are!  There's  always 
a  long  string  of  them!  You  can't  keep  some  women  away 
from  a  sight  like  that  —  even  on  a  feast  day.  When  the 
theatre  is  full,  many  leave  the  play  before  it's  quite  done, 
to  get  the  best  places.  Well  —  one  more  pull  —  and  a 
long  afternoon  ahead  of  us  to  enjoy  the  sport !  " 

For  a  few  more  seconds  the  two  made  their  way  in 
silence.  Then  the  garrulous  southerner  burst,  anew,  into 
speech.  "  You  never  told  me  where  you  bought  these  ear- 
rings. And  that  necklace!  Your  gems  are  worth  a  for- 
tune. That  old  Nirias  must  have  doted  on  you!  Well, 
some  women  are  lucky,  and  some  the  gods  delight  to  scourge. 
Now  I'm  as  honest  as  any,  and  as  pious,  yet,  though  I'm 
lawfully  married,  I've  wished  a  hundred  times  I  had  served 
Aphrodite  instead  of  making  offering  to  Hera.  Heigho! 
but  life  is  a  comedy !  Where  did  you  say  you  secured  those 
doves?  In  Athens?  Ah-h  —  I  thought  not.  Corinthian 
artists  work  for  women  who  know  the  true  value  of  gems! 
Those  poor,  imprisoned  Athenian  women!  Well  —  their 
husbands  and  sons  are  now  having  a  taste  of  prison  life. 
Ha  —  ha!  it  warms  one's  heart  to  think  of  them  —  dying 
like  worms.  Warm  —  you  too?  Well  —  let's  slow  our 
pace.  There's  all  the  afternoon  before  us !  " 

Maia  was  glad  of  the  moment's  rest.  She  had  not,  as 
yet,  fully  measured  her  strange  weakness ;  and  the  trembling 
that  now  shook  her  frame  gave  her  nervous  fears  of  her 
lasting  force.  Should  she  indeed  be  able  to  hold  to  the  end  ? 
Could  she  reach  the  hill-top?  She  swept  her  scent  bottle 


394         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

below  her  nostrils;  she  was  glad  to  lean,  panting,  worn, 
chilled  with  the  mounting  fever  of  anxious  apprehension, 
against  the  nearest  statue-pedestal. 

It  was  during  the  long  sea  voyage  that  the  shining  of 
Maia's  bright  certainty  of  hope,  in  her  venture,  had  waned. 
Alone  —  with  Athens  and  friends  left  far  behind,  sailing 
across  new,  unknown  seas,  a  braver  soul  than  Maia's  might 
well  have  found  high  courage  drooping.  In  the  long  days, 
and  longer  nights,  no  comforting  visions  had  visited  Maia's 
brooding  despair.  For  the  lethargy  of  despair  was,  in- 
deed, upon  her.  Her  soul  —  as  had  her  body  —  had 
swooned  beneath  the  langour  of  these  southern  skies. 
Athens'  brisk,  keen  air  swept  moral  tonic  to  one's  worst 
state.  Here,  the  Sicilian  tropical  clime  made  the  spirit 
droop,  sicken  with  eating  doubt,  a  prey  to  dread  despair. 

Each  moment,  since  her  landing,  had  been  prolonged 
torture.  For  she  must  play  her  part.  To  this  Syracusan 
and  her  husband  —  the  corn  merchant  who  once  had  come 
to  Corinth,  as  Nirias'  house  agent,  he  who  had  told  Nirias 
the  tale  of  the  Egestaean  trickery  —  to  these  two  —  the 
sole  Syracusans  to  whom  it  mattered  —  she  was  come  as  a 
Corinthian  —  as  Nirias'  widow  and  heiress.  Her  journey 
was  purely  one  of  pleasure. 

Even  now,  as  she  was  pushing  onward,  to  the  quarries, 
Mago  was  haunting  the  markets.  He  was  industriously 
spreading  the  lie. 

Praxionoe,  the  Syracusan,  as  they  mounted  upward,  was 
telling  her,  and  for  the  hundredth  time,  that,  for  her  part, 
had  she  been  a  widow,  and  rich  "  and  a  Corinthian,"  Maia's 
journey  of  all  voyages  was  the  one  she  would  have  chosen 
to  undertake. 

"  Where  else  could  you  go  —  to  gain  greater  pleasure  ? 
It's  a  feast  day  —  here  —  as  you  have  seen  for  yourself  — 
every  day  of  our  week.  Wait  till  you  see  the  theatre 


THE  QUARRIES  395 

packed,  and  hear  Syracusan  shouts!  That's  what  the 
Athenians  heard  — our  shouting,  as  their  fleet  went  to 
pieces.  And  the  few  that  are  alive,  will  never  hear  the 
like!  — pity  more  aren't  able  to  tell  stay-at-home  Athenians 
how  Syracusans  sang  in  chorus,  from  shore  to  shore,  on 
that  glorious  day,  to  join  in  with  the  war-paon!  Ha! 
Ha!  I  shall  hear  that  chorus  ringing  in  my  ears  —  as 
long  as  life  lasts." 

Would  the  woman  never  have  done?  For  a  night  and  a 
day,  she  and  the  city  had  echoed  this,  their  noisy  triumph. 
Every  song  was  stinging  torture,  every  cry  a  stab.  Yet 
Maia  bore  it,  as  she  bore  now  with  the  Syracusan's 
coarse  gloating.  Soon  —  Ah  soon!  —  it  must  be  ended,  or 
human  endurance  would  find  its  strength  ebbing. 

The  two  women  had  reached  the  top  of  the  hill.  The 
great  theatre,  hewn  in  the  living  rock,  even  now,  at  this 
tremendous  moment,  caught  and  fixed  Maia's  trained  eyes. 
Its  cylindrical  perfection  claimed,  and  won,  Athenian  ad- 
miration. Towards  the  left,  above  the  upper  tiers  of  seats, 
stretched  the  Necropolis.  Its  gleaming  statues,  mosaics, 
and  bronzes  glistened  in  the  bright  sunlight.  The  road  that 
lay  between  the  tombs  was  a  glittering,  gorgeously  decked 
pathway.  And  below  both  burying-ground  and  theatre  lay 
the  City,  its  gold  and  marbles  hurrying  to  meet  the  dis- 
tant blues  and  the  nearer  jade-like  greens  of  the  great 
Harbour. 

Maia  had  caught  the  vast  outlook,  at  a  single  glance. 
The  immensity  of  the  Harbour  made  her  heart  strings 
tighten.  In  that  vast  liquid  circle  Athens'  greatness  had 
gone  down! 

The  next  instant  she  felt  herself  gasping  for  breath. 
The  air  that  had  been  swept  outward,  to  stifle  her  lungs, 
was  of  such  putrid  quality,  she  was  sent,  hurrying,  in- 
stinctively, to  seek  for  freer,  less  befouled  spaces. 


396         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

The  Syracusan  followed.  She  laughed,  as  she  moved, 
and  her  eyes  were  aflame  with  pride. 

"Ah-h  —  what  did  I  tell  you?  The  stench  is  as  great 
as  I  promised  —  is  it  not  ?  Never  was  there  known  such  a 
smell!  You're  not  used  to  it  —  And  to  us  'tis  almost 
sweet !  For  they're  dying  yonder  —  by  the  dozens  —  the 
rotting  bodies  are  doing  their  work.  Come  —  we'll  have 
to  work  hard  for  good  places  —  I  see  the  crowd's  a  thick 
one!" 

Praxinoe's  face,  as  she  grasped  Maia,  hurrying  her 
towards  the  quarries  to  the  right,  was  the  face  of  a  gloating 
fury. 

"  Oh-h!  Oh-h!  "  moaned  Maia,  though  she  now  walked 
onward.  For  the  life  of  her  she  could  not  help  the  groan 
voicing  her  anguish. 

Praxinoe  shot  Maia  a  sharp,  disapproving  look.  "  Ha! 
Ha!  A  Corinthian  —  and  soft  of  heart!  Your  tender 
sympathies  need  hardening  then  —  for  you'll  see  sights  now 
to  stir  the  stoutest !  Oh,  ye  gods !  What  a  crowd !  How 
shall  we  ever  push  our  way  through  such  a  throng?  Ah  — 
my  friend,  don't  crush  me.  There's  room  enough  for  two, 
if  only  one  is  polite.  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  bold 
creature?  Maia  —  look  how  well  the  folds  of  her  chiton 
fall  —  almost  as  well  as  yours.  She  must  have  had  an 
Athenian  model.  By  august  Athena  —  but  Athenians 
know  how  to  dress  —  if  they  have  lost  the  art  of  fighting. 
How  long  did  you  say  you  were  in  Athens?  Long  enough 
to  catch  their  tricks  of  fashion  —  I  see  that.  I  wonder  you 
didn't  catch  a  second  husband.  The  Athenians  are  fine 
men  —  they  looked  as  brave  and  noble,  as  Mars  himself, 
that  day  of  the  great  sea  fight.  But  Lord  —  how  our 
ships !  — 

"  Good  heavens  —  we'll  never  get  a  place.  All  the  best 
places  are  taken  —  I  told  you  they  would  be !  You  must  be 


THE  QUARRIES  397 

close  to  the  edge  —  If  you  wish  to  see  the  best  of  the  sport. 
There  —  there  —  don't  cry  out  —  my  beauties!  There's 
room  enough  for  two  more  on  this  bank.  Ah-h-h  —  at 
last!  We  can  see  everything.  That's  right,  bend  over. 
Did  you  ever  see  the  like?  Aren't  they  for  all  the  world 
like  monkies?  Nobles!  these  Athenians!  Ah,  ha!  See 
them  squirm !  " 

The  road  above  the  theatre,  to  the  left,  had  led  them  to 
an  abyss.  In  the  black  gulf  that  yawned  below  this  opening, 
both  the  features  of  as  well  as  the  strange  uses  to  which  the 
deep  pit  of  the  quarry  had  been  put,  were  at  first  confused, 
indistinguishable.  One  seemed  peering  into  one  of  earth's 
mysterious  depths,  out  of  whose  awful  womb  any  horrors 
might  emerge. 

As  though  to  mark  the  more  strongly  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  heaven  above  of  Sicilian  skies,  and  that  black 
mouth  of  a  hell,  the  upper  grassy  edge  of  the  abyss  was 
fringed  with  Syracusan  beauties.  The  intense  southern  sun- 
light shone  upon  ripe  lips,  and  liquid  laughing  eyes.  Ex- 
quisitely chiselled  features  and  young  fair  necks  leant  over 
the  opening,  gems  glittered  on  bared  arms,  and  pearl  fillets 
clasped  the  luxuriant  tresses  of  these  richly-dowered  south- 
ern types  of  women. 

Maia  had  been  scarce  conscious  of  the  day's  audience  that 
hung  over  this  Syracusan  quarry.  She  had  only  felt  a  great 
trembling  seize  upon  her,  and  a  wild  —  an  all  but  ungov- 
ernable rage.  It  seemed  as  though  naught  but  this  sense- 
less, laughing,  chattering  crowd  of  men  and  women  stood 
between  her  and  her  Ion.  Her  one  impulse  was  to  press  for- 
ward, to  push,  to  harm  or  hurt,  if  need  were,  that  she  might 
be  among  those  who  stood  closest  to  the  awful  brink. 

Her  eyes,  blinded  by  the  outer  blaze  of  the  intense  sun- 
light, enabled  her,  at  first,  as  she  bent  downwards,  merely  to 
descry  the  deep,  wide  chasm.  A  blueish,  gaseous  light 


398          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

hung,  thin,  vaporous,  between  the  upper  brighter  air,  and 
what  lay  below,  at  the  bottom  of  the  quarry. 

Little  by  little  she  saw  clearer  and  yet  more  clearly. 
Down  the  sides  of  the  brown  opening  there  trickled  streams 
of  moisture.  Below  —  far  below  —  these  rivulets  had 
formed  pools.  These  pools  were  brown  —  they  were 
choked  with  foul  matter.  Tufts  of  weeds  and  sprouting 
grasses,  here  and  there,  had  grown  their  germs  into  the 
loose,  uneven  sides  of  the  quarries.  And  their  brightness, 
as  their  leaves  caught  the  light,  seemed  to  mock  the  grim 
horrors  below. 

As  the  features  of  that  awful  hell  revealed  themselves, 
Maia  reeled.  Long  since  she  had  ceased  to  hear  Praxinoe's 
cruel  chatter.  She  heard  nothing,  saw  naught  indeed,  but 
what  lay  or  crawled  there,  below,  far  below,  among  the 
foul  pools. 

The  brown  spectres  moving  there,  were  surely  not  alive. 
They  bore  little  or  no  semblance  to  men.  One  or  two  of 
the  spectres  sat  up,  lifted  a  spectral  hand  —  and  Maia's 
terrified  cry  broke  from  her. 

She  saw  —  she  knew  —  now  what  those  brown  skeletons 
were. 

"  God  —  is  it  possible  ?    Oh  God !    God !  " 

Maia's  wail  of  horror  startled  the  gay  crowd  of  look- 
ers-on. Women's  faces,  below  their  flower-wreathed  heads 
stared,  in  amazement,  at  the  new-comer.  Some  laughed, 
light,  scornful  laughter.  Others  scanned  Maia's  stricken 
face,  with  suspicion.  Even  Praxinoe  eyed  her,  with  a  fear- 
stricken  glance.  She  pushed  her  full  lips  towards  Maia's 
ear.  "  For  the  love  of  the  gods,  keep  silent !  They'll  think 
you  an  Athenian  —  and  where  will  I  be?  " 

Maia  summoned  a  smile.  Her  pallor  she  could  not  con- 
trol. She  leant  further  away  from  the  grassy  brink.  "  It 
—  it  sickens  one  —  at  first,"  she  made  haste  to  say,  as  loud 


THE  QUARRIES  399 

as  she  was  able.  Then  she  took  pains  to  sweep  her  bottle 
of  unguent  below  her  nostrils.  But  a  new  diversion  was 
being  furnished,  and  Maia  and  her  silly  fussiness  were  for- 
gotten. 

The  roar  of  roused  but  enfeebled  lions,  wasted  to  the 
famishing  point,  rose  up  from  the  pit.  A  brown  mass  of 
naked,  tattered  starvlings  had  risen,  like  an  army,  from  un- 
seen holes  and  crevices.  With  shrieks  and  yells,  the  mass 
flung  itself  upon  some  scattered  bits  of  food.  The  fight  was 
the  fight  of  men  turned  to  beasts.  The  brown  mass  was 
kicking,  pushing,  beating,  squirming,  snarling.  Now  a 
slimy  skeleton  would  emerge,  painfully,  from  the  packed 
mass  of  humanity  above  him,  his  cheeks  stuffed.  Once  free 
he  would  be  seen  running  like  a  deer  —  to  hide  his  prize. 
Others,  having  secured  a  morsel,  hurried  off  to  the  inner 
quarries,  bent  on  sharing  it  with  a  less  fortunate  com- 
rade. Some  made  no  effort  to  compete  with  their  fren- 
zied comrades.  Many  were  too  weak  to  stand,  or  even  to 
crawl.  And  others  dared  not  move  lest  a  strip  of  a  blanket, 
on  which  they  were  sitting,  might  be  lost.  For  Sicilian 
nights  in  autumn  were  cold ;  and  to  possess  a  night  covering 
was  next  in  bliss  to  being  fed  or  ransomed. 

Maia  had  strained  her  eyes  to  the  uttermost.  Each 
wasted  shape,  every  brown,  yellow,  or  grey-blue  face  had 
been  scanned,  searched,  and  relinquished, —  with  an  inward 
moan  that  was  half  relief,  half  despair.  How  could  she 
bear  to  find  in  one  of  those  crawling,  shrunken,  bestial 
shapes  her  beloved  Ion?  Yet  how  could  she  live,  were  he 
not  among  these  his  fellow  sufferers?  For  alive  he  must  be; 
she  knew  him,  felt  him  to  be  living.  Of  that  fact  she  was  as 
certain  as  of  her  own  fever-strung  anguish.  Since  ever  she 
had  leant  over  the  quarry,  Ion's  face  had  seemed  ever  coming 
towards  her  — nearer  and  yet  nearer.  She  could  almost 
hear  his  tread,  feel  his  actual  presence. 


400          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Praxinoe's  shrill  cry  now  startled  Maia.  The  women 
seemed  gone  fairly  mad  with  delight. 

"  See  —  Oh  see !  "  cried  Praxinoe,  "  the  big  man  —  he's 
a  wonder!  " 

The  giant,  who  had  appeared,  was  a  favourite.  Cries  and 
shouts  were  sent  downwards. 

"  He's  the  Scythian  of  the  quarries !  Hello !  Scythian ! 
—  you've  work  on  hand  to-day  "  the  women  shouted  down, 
to  the  huge  shape,  as  it  came  within  the  circle  of  light. 
With  an  effort  at  a  grotesque  gesture  —  one  it  was 
pitiful  to  see  —  the  monster,  as  he  emerged  into  the  light, 
attempted  to  give  the  salute  comic  actors  made  use  of  upon 
the  stage.  The  trick  had  won  him  food  before.  A  shower 
of  sesame  cakes  rewarded  him  now.  The  gaunt  face  smiled. 
It  was  the  wide  grin  of  a  living  skull.  The  lookers-on 
continued  to  accost  the  "  Scyth." 

"Ha!  Ha!  Another  Athenian  gone  to  hell!  Charon 
will  be  busy  this  week  —  they're  dying  off  rapidly!" 
All  laughed  at  the  brilliant  sally.  Not  a  woman's 
face  had  blanched;  not  a  smile  had  paled.  Eyes  had,  in- 
deed, brightened.  The  Syracusans  felt  they  had  not  wasted 
their  day.  The  show  had  been  better,  if  anything,  than 
usual.  For  as  the  giant  had  come  forward,  one  of  the 
prisoners  had  fallen,  had  struggled,  for  an  instant,  and  now 
lay  dead. 

"Dance!  Dance!"  cried  out,  imperiously,  a  delicate- 
visaged  girl.  As  she  leant  over  the  dreadful  abyss,  she  was 
a  vision  of  frail  beauty.  Her  draperies  clung  to  a  shape 
as  delicately  modelled  as  Psyche's.  Her  amber-tinted 
hair  had  escaped  her  jewel-studded  fillet.  Its  soft  curls 
encircled  her  slender  throat  and  brow.  Her  eyes  were 
tender  —  were  melting.  Her  lips  were  scarlet  with  excite- 
ment. She  was  clapping  her  hand  joyously,  like  a  pleased 
child,  as  she  shouted  down  her  commands. 


THE  QUARRIES  401 

"  I'll  give  you  a  whole  basket,  all  to  yourself.  But  you 
must  dance  for  it!"  cried  the  divinity,  and  she  struck  the 
Scythian  with  a  cake. 

Maia  felt  her  knees  giving  away.  Could  she  indeed  en- 
dure to  go  on  looking?  Death-like  chills  were  now  shak- 
ing her.  She  felt  as  though  turned  to  stone.  Ah ! were 

it  but  a  dream  — this  hell  about  her!  That  brilliant, 
jewel-gleaming,  flower-decked  circlet  of  cruel,  horrible 
women!  Surely  they  were  no  women!  They  were  furies 
—  Hecate's  offsprings,  clad  in  costly  raiments,  with  hearts 
of  stone! 

That  Scythian's  dance!  Could  mortal  eyes  look  upon 
such  a  sight  —  and  not  cry  aloud,  in  pity? 

For  the  gaunt  monster  was  now  dancing.  His  giant  legs 
were  thin  as  reeds  —  but  the  beast  within  was  starving,  and 
the  beast  willed  them  to  dance.  Now  his  feet  met,  then  they 
were  lifted;  next  the  huge  shape  was  flung  quickly  about, 
in  a  circle,  whirling  in  his  mad  wild  dance.  It  was  surely  a 
scene  for  devils  only. 

The  amber-draped  divinity  still  smiled  her  gay  smile. 
She  was  leaning  now  as  far  over  the  bank  as  she  dared, 
without  endangering  her  safety.  Her  gold-fringed  fan  was 
beating  time  to  the  monster's  steps. 

"  By  the  Graces,  but  he  remembers  his  steps.  Here  — 
take  this !  "  and  the  girl  tossed  the  giant  a  covered  basket, 
thickly  packed.  She  took  it  from  a  slave's  hand.  "  He'll 
live  a  week  on  that  —  and  dance  all  the  better  for  the  wine 
there  is  in  it."  The  girl's  eyes  suddenly  beamed  as  she 
spoke. 

"  Ah  —  here's  luck !  here  are  the  Inseparables,—  Damon 
and  Pythias  we  call  them.  It  is  days  since  I've  seen  them 
—  have  you  —  or  you  seen  them?"  and  the  girl  turned, 
questioning,  her  eyes  alight,  to  her  neighbours. 

Two  shapes  now  emerged  from  the  inner  recesses  of  the 


402          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

abyss.  One  —  the  frailer  of  the  two  —  apparently  —  was 
upheld  by  his  companion;  he  moved  as  might  walk  a  jointed 
skeleton.  His  great  eyes  shone  with  feverish  light.  The 
skin  that  revealed,  rather  than  covered  his  anatomy,  was 
that  of  a  Persian. 

Maia  scarcely  breathed.  The  mere  sight  of  the  lightish 
copper  skin  had  made  her  heart  stop.  "  Yet "  she  cried 
to  her  tortured  soul  —  tormented  with  the  long  strain  of 
looking,  of  watching  for  a  sign,  for  a  familiar  gesture,  "  yet 
though  these  walk  indeed  like  men  —  a  little  less  like  beasts 
—  surely  they  seem  quite  old  —  these  two  —  quite  — " 

The  gold  and  amber-draped  girl  was  sing-songing  again, 
in  her  languid  Sicilian  accents: — 

"  They  are  never  apart  —  you  see.  They  always  walk 
thus  —  they  keep  entirely  to  themselves.  One  doesn't  al- 
was  see  them,  either.  One  of  them  —  the  Athenian,  not 
the  Persian  —  was  ill  for  a  long  time.  The  other  —  the 
dark  one  —  kept  him  alive  —  by  giving  him  his  slave's  ra- 
tions — " 

The  two  shapes  were  now  in  full  sunlight.  And  one  of 
them  had  turned  his  eyes  and  face  upwards.  For  a  single 
instant  the  hollowed  eyes  had  stared,  had  flashed  a  startled 
glance  upward.  Then,  as  though  he  had  seen  a  vision,  only 
as  quickly  to  have  it  vanish,  he  turned  to  his  companion, 
and  spoke  to  him. 

And,  under  skies  that  were  tropical,  Maia  had  turned  to 
ice,  then  to  lead.  Her  senses  were  so  benumbed,  she  had  no 
power  even  to  cry  out. 

For  one  of  the  skeletons  was  Ion. 


Chapter  XXXV 

ION  SINGS 

As  Ion  emerged  from  the  inner  recesses  of  the  quarries,  he 
and  Persia  moved  with  their  now  habitual  enfeebled  steps. 
Persia  had  urged  their  going  to  the  mouth  of  the  quarry, 
to  seek  the  air.  The  fever  that  for  weeks  had  racked  his 
beloved  master's  frame,  had  left  Ion  such  a  legacy  of  lan- 
quor  as  to  make  his  living  state  match  death's  inertia. 

Ion,  weak,  and  a  skeleton,  was  proving  the  vigour  and 
staying  quality  of  his  unspent,  unwasted  physical  force.  In 
hell  though  he  was,  he  was  slowly,  surely,  creeping  back  to 
life. 

Night  after  night  Persia  had  stripped  his  own  body  to 
cover  his  dear  master's  wasted  frame;  and,  since  his  con- 
valescence, the  half  slave's  rations  given  each  prisoner  had 
been  cunningly  mixed  with  Ion's  portion.  Persia  had  starved 
that  his  master  might  live.  The  re-action  had  come. 
Persia  felt  the  on-coming  of  the  dread  enemy,  from  which 
he  had  saved  his  master. 

"Dear  Master  —  let  us  seek  the  opening.  I  know  not 
what  possesses  me  —  but  a  breath  of  even  that  befouled  air 
I  must  have,"  he  had  gasped,  as  he  had  stretched  forth  his 
emaciated  hand  to  lean  upon  Ion's  arm. 

In  an  instant  Ion's  skeleton  arm  was  about  his  dear 
Persia.  Ion's  face,  drawn,  fever-wasted,  showed  a  quick 
flicker  of  fear.  "Dearest  Persia  — art  suffering?  Art 
faint?  Oh  lean  upon  me!  Indeed  I  am  strong— fear 
not.  Let  me  bear  you  hence.  I  am  stronger  than  you 
think."  Ion's  sudden  alarm  lent  him  a  supernatural 

403 


404          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

energy.     He  half  carried,   half  dragged  his  slave  onward. 

As  the  Scythian  had  passed,  his  covered  basket  glutton- 
ously clutched,  Persia  had  emitted  a  faint  gasp.  His  eyes 
grew  wild  — 

"  Master  —  I  believe  he  carried  food.  Some  one  has 
thrown  him  a  full  basket."  Even  as  he  whispered  his 
guess,  Persia  felt  himself  seized  by  a  strange,  an  overwhelm- 
ing force.  A  new,  an  unknown  Persia  had  been  born  — 
at  the  mere  suspicion  of  fair  food.  This  new  being  was  a 
monster  of  furious,  devouring  appetite  —  one  gentle  Persia 
could  no  more  control  than  he  might  up-bear  /Etna's  might. 

Persia  suddenly  began  to  obey  this  new,  this  awful 
monster.  It  bade  him  work  upon  Ion,  play  upon  him, 
caress  him  into  procuring  from  the  gay  furies  aloft,  what 
the  Scythian  had  won. 

"  Master  —  dear,  dear  Master  —  what  he  has  done 
—  might  not  we  do?  If  there  is  food  to  be  won?  — 
surely — "  and  Persia's  long  fingers  were  fondling  Ion's 
arm,  his  immense  eyes,  rolling  in  deep  hollow  sockets,  wooed 
his  master  with  cringing,  pleading  looks. 

Ion  gave  Persia  a  glance  of  amazement.  Persia  only 
too  obviously  was  sickening.  Ion  felt  himself  summoning 
all  his  strength  to  soothe  —  to  comfort  his  slave. 

"  Let  us  first  see  what  is  happening  —  dear  Persia  — • 
if  any  new  torture  has  been  invented  —  by  these  furies !  or 
if  the  Charites  —  merciful  sisters  —  have  worked  upon 
their  hard  hearts." 

With  his  arm  now  tightened  about  Persia's  limp  frame, 
Ion  suddenly  emerged,  from  the  gloom  of  the  inner  quar- 
ries, into  full  sunlight. 

The  strong  southern  sunshine,  slanting  downward,  ob- 
liquely, produced  its  usual  effects.  Ion's  eyes,  weakened  by 
want  and  disease,  could  not  withstand  the  blaze.  For  a 
moment  he  groped  his  way,  leading  Persia.  And  instinc- 


ION  SINGS  405 

tively  he  lifted  his  free  hand,  to  screen  his  suddenly  be- 
dimmed,  tear-rimmed  orbs. 

The  familiar,  accustomed  sights,  as  he  sent  his  gaze  up- 
ward, met  his  vision.  The  grasses,  and  out-shooting  shrubs, 
that  made  a  pleasant  mockery  of  greenness  between  the 
adorable  blues  of  the  Sicilian  skies  and  the  reeking  filth 
and  odours  below,  these  green  sword-blades  and  the  spirals 
of  the  sprouting  shrubs,  were  waving  lightly,  gaily,  in  mid- 
air. 

About  the  quarries'  upper  edge,  he  saw  the  familiar  circle 
gathered.  The  faces,  some  young  and  lovely,  others  hard 
and  painted,  were,  if  not  the  very  same,  of  the  now  well 
known  Syracusan  ripe  type;  parasols  and  faces  were  held 
above  the  towering  head  gear;  and  the  intense  light  shone 
through  the  pink,  blue,  and  crimson  textures  of  the  parasols, 
throwing  a  strange  glamour  of  harmonious  tinting  on  the 
women's  bent  faces  and  bared  shoulders. 

Ion's  ears  caught  the  circling  ring  of  the  continuous  jeer- 
ing and  insults.  The  women  were  clapping,  as  each  and 
every  day  they  had  clapped,  at  this  lengthened  comedy  of 
Athens'  a-dying. 

As  Ion's  gaze  travelled  on,  from  group  to  group,  he  al- 
most smiled,  in  his  bitterness:  certain  faces  were  become 
so  familiar,  among  these  tormentors,  they  seemed  almost 
friends.  There  was  the  woman  with  the  pearl  fillet  —  she 
who  laughed  the  loudest  of  all!  — and  there,  close  to  the 
strong-voiced  woman,  was  the  delicate-visaged  creature,  who 
looked  the  angel,  and  who  commonly  led  the  more  brutal  of 
all  the  sports.  To-day  she  wore  amber  jewels  and  honey- 
tinted  draperies. 

Ah-ha !  —  a  new  face  —  a  strange  shape  had  made  its  ap- 
pearance. 

Were  the  heavens,  indeed,  about  to  open  —  to  carry  him 
and  sickening  Persia  upward?  For  God  in  Heaven!  this 


406          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

woman's  face  looked  kind!  It  actually  shone  and  glowed 
with  tender,  human  feeling.  It  had  —  O  wild  delight ! 
this  lovely  face  had  in  its  yearning  sweetness  something  of 
divine  Maia's  look.  How  the  mere  thought  of  such  re- 
semblance made  him  pulse!  How  or  where  the  impulse 
came,  Ion  never  knew.  Almost  insensibly,  he  lifted  his 
voice  and  sang  — 

"  Mighty  Power,  all  powers  above, 

Great  unconquerable  love. 
Thou  who  liest  in  dimple  sleek 
On  the  tender  virgin's  cheek  — " 

Ion's  song,  even  as  his  thoughts  travelled  thus,  suddenly 
came  to  an  end.  His  strength,  he  found,  was  gone.  He 
had  no  voice  left  for  the  anti-strophe. 

A  loud  clapping  rewarded  his  effort.  Shouts  of  "  Evoe 
—  Saboie  —  Evoe !  " 

Ion  smiled  upward  his  thanks.  He  saluted,  with  the 
best  grace  he  could  master.  His  pleading  eyes  swept  the 
circle.  It  was  not  applause,  but  food,  he  was  longing  to 
have  flung  down  to  him. 

A  single  sesame  cake  shot  downwards.  Like  one  brought 
to  life  by  miraculous  means,  Persia  had  sprung  —  had 
jumped,  and  he  caught  the  sweet  morsel  ere  it  fell  —  he 
had  crunched  it  in  the  very  teeth  of  his  master.  For  this 
monster  within  was  more  powerful  than  love  or  the  sense 
of  servitude. 

Persia's  eyes  glittered  more  brightly  than  before,  his  face 
had  a  bestial  look  as  he  went  close  to  Ion,  to  whine  — 
with  a  fierce  animal  growl  — 

"  Oh-h  —  can  you  not  finish  the  ode  ?  With  the  anti- 
strophe  they  would  surely  fling  down  more  cakes !  "  And 
then  he  felt  himself  swaying.  But  Ion  caught  him ;  he  held 


ION  SINGS  407 

him  close,  and  to  his  inflamed  eyes,  Ion  sent  loving,  soothing 
looks. 

"  Dear  Persia,  I'll  even  dance  for  the  devils,  if  'twill 
soften  their  cruelty.  I'll  try  the  anti-strophe  —  but  —  are 
they  not  calling  for  something  else?  What  is  it  they  wish? 
There  — dear  Persia,  lie  thus,  at  rest."  Spreading  his 
mantle,  he  placed  Persia's  wasted  shape  upon  the  ground. 
Then  he  went  forward,  lifted  his  head,  and  opened  his  lips. 

On  and  on  Ion  now  sang,  his  voice  gathering  amazing 
strength  and  fulness,  as  his  notes  rang  up.  With  that  sem- 
blance to  Maia  above,  smiling  as  Maia  might  have  smiled; 
—  and  with  the  thickening  memories  swarming  within,  Ion 
was,  for  a  brief  instant  the  old  young  Ion ;  he  was  breathing 
fresh  forest  scents  —  he  was  feeling  Maia's  fragrant  shape 
linked  with  his,  as  they  trod  the  silver  world  of  Arcadia; 
and,  married  to  his  own  voice,  were  Maia's  glorious  trilling 
tones.  Their  chorusing  song  was  swinging  up  to  the  moon- 
lit arches. 

Even  as  he  sang,  out  of  the  happy  vision  a  real  joy  came. 
For  Maia's  pictured  self  seemed  waving  —  above  the  open- 
ing —  a  filmy  lilac  veil.  Her  imaged  likeness  had  caught 
the  very  gesture!  Thus  had  Maia  waved,  in  farewell, 
from  the  steps  of  Aphrodite's  sanctuary,  as  the  fleet  sailed 
away.  Zeus  —  and  the  dear  gods,  one  and  all!  But  how 
far  away  seemed  that  bright  Athenian  world !  And  what  a 
mockery  for  him  to  be  singing,  to  Syracusan  fiends,  his 
and  Maia's  own  dear  love  song,  and  for  that  dear  tantaliz- 
ing angel  to  practice  Maia's  very  gesture,  and  to  wave,  thus, 
to  one  in  hell! 

Ion  felt  the  tremor  of  a  great  weakness  succeed  the 
instant's  uplift.  He  was  forced,  and  quickly,  to  steady  his 
enfee'  ed  limbs. 

The  divinity  was  still  shining  down  upon  him  —  this  true 
angel's  face  was  surely  blooming  from  out  heaven's  blue,  to 


4o8          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

send  him  the  hope  of  a  fair  Nemesis!  This  lovely  being 
had  actually  stolen  Maia's  eyes !  —  the  very  stoop  of  her 
shoulders  was  hers  —  and  she  wore  Maia's  own  preferred 
amethystine  draperies  —  Blessed  be  the  Athenian  gods  she 
had  come !  For  with  her  had  dawned  a  new,  a  radiant-orbed 
hope.  ,He  would  sing  to  the  shape,  as  though  she  were 
indeed  Maia.  Perhaps  she,  with  her  kind  human  eyes, 
might  toss  Persia  a  second  sesame  cake. 

Ion  straightened  his  wasted  frame.  And  he  drew  in  his 
breath.  Even  at  this  supreme  moment,  his  early  orchestral 
training  came  to  yield  him  succor.  Feeble,  quavering,  the 
notes  he  essayed  to  voice,  grew  fuller,  stronger.  Up 
through  the  quivering  air  he  sent  the  whole  of  Sophocles' 
incomparable  ode.  The  furies  aloft  had  ceased  their  loud 
chattering.  And  the  sick  and  the  dying  below  held  their 
faint  breath  —  their  moans  were  stilled. 

When  he  stopped,  Ion  moved  backward  to  place  Persia 
closer  to  the  wall  of  the  opening,  and  then  he  once  again 
went  forward. 

The  crowd  aloft  were  now  shouting  downwards  — 

"Euripides!     Give  us  something  of  your  Euripides!" 

"  Give  us  a  chorus !  " 

"An  ode!    An  ode!" 

Euripides  was  new  to  the  Syracusans.  Few,  if  any,  of 
his  great  plays  had  been  given  in  the  theatre.  Those 
Sicilians  who  had  heard  his  masterpieces  given  at  the  Festi- 
vals or  Games,  in  Hellas,  had  brought  back  enthusiastic 
praise  of  his  genius. 

This  singing  Athenian,  below,  in  that  foul  prison,  looked 
better  born  thai  most  of  the  prisoners.  He  might  be  able 
to  give  some  of  the  famous  Athenian  Euripidean  choruses 
—  since  he  knew  his  Sophocles  so  well.  A  passionate  lover 
of  theatrical  novelties  —  a  tall  handsome  Syracusan,  thought 
of  this  possibility,  and  acted  upon  it. 


ION  SINGS  409 

"An  Euripidean  chorus  —  one  of  the  best  — and  a  full 
basket  shall  be  sent  to  you !  "  he  cried  out,  lustily,  to  Ion. 

Ion  felt  his  very  soul  rise  up  in  gratitude.  And  Persia 
was  softly  crying,  for  pure  joy. 

Once  again  Ion  straightened  his  tall,  emaciated  frame. 
He  had  begun  to  chant  slowly : — 

"  O  great  is  the  bliss  of  the  great  to  enjoy,"  when, 
suddenly,  without  due  warning,  both  voice  and  memory 
failed  him. 

Ion's  mind  was  a  blank.  Not  a  word,  not  a  line  could 
be  wooed  to  present  itself.  Ion  repeated  the  first  lines, 
striving  thus  to  court  his  wayward  memory.  But  his  brain 
was  an  empty  ball. 

He  stood,  palsied,  trembling,  the  sweat  of  desperation 
upon  him.  His  plight  was  pitiful  to  see. 

His  audience,  meanwhile,  had  perceived  the  Athenian's 
despair,  or  guessed  his  ignorance.  Syracusan  mercy  was 
meted  out  to  him.  Jeers,  hisses,  curses  rang  in  chorus  — 
a  hellish  sound.  Even  those  within  the  pit  muttered  fiend- 
ishly. For  suffering  turns  men  to  devils  —  and  all  who  had 
heard  the  bribe,  had  counted  on  fighting  for  its  possession. 

Out  of  this  circle  of  hellish  chorusing,  Ion's  eyes  sought 
the  comfort  of  Maia's  counterpart.  Were  those  dear  re- 
sembling features  to  soften  —  to  smile  — 

Why !  —  the  heavens  were  blue  once  more !  And  his 
mind  had  begun  to  work.  The  adorable  being  was  bend- 
ing forward.  As  she  smiled,  he  could  actually  see  the 
glistening  of  bright  eyes.  Weeping  —  and  for  him,  per- 
haps! Marvel  of  marvels!  Ion  almost  laughed,  to  his 
leaping  pulses.  These  Syracusan  fiends  had  made  him  for- 
get women  could  weep!  And  now  this  —  Maia's  very 
image  was  trying  to  speak  —  she  was  sending  words  —  and 
such  words,  down  into  hell.  This  angel  spoke  Athenian 
Greek!  Greek! 


410          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Resonant,  melodious,  rhythmic,  the  familiar  accents  came. 
The  voice  was  saying  — 

"  Pray  give  us  the  chorus  from  Iphigenia.  It  begins, 
does  it  not  — '  Happy  They  '  ?  " 

Ion  would  have  heard  the  syllables  above  the  roar  of 
crumbling  worlds.  For  the  voice  matched  the  face.  If 
one  could  conceive  of  heaven-sent  miracles,  'twas  Maia  in 
the  flesh! 

The  intoxicating  thought  lent  Ion  new-born  forces.  His 
memory  served  him  now.  The  lady's  pure  Ionic  accent 
had  made  his  old  self  re-live.  Athens,  the  Markets,  the 
Colonnades,  the  Theatre,  the  mighty  Citadel,  crowded  thick 
before  his  mind.  As  he  sang  on  and  on,  he  was  singing  his 
old  joyous  days,  his  victories,  his  loves,  his  passionate  ache 
for  home,  and  city,  and  father  and  Maia. 

The  sonorous,  cadenced  beauty  of  verse  and  song,  pro- 
duced their  effect.  Hell  above  and  hell  below  were  silenced. 

The  circle  of  the  tormenting  furies  hung  breathless, 
tranced,  about  the  brink.  Tears  came  to  the  eyes  of  many. 
Even  strong  men  felt  the  quiver  and  strain  of  moved  feel- 
ing. Those  who  were  in  pain,  close  to  Ion,  forgot  to 
moan.  And  the  dying  smiled.  For  the  fields  of  Elysium 
were  already  reached;  as  they  floated  on,  to  Charon's  wait- 
ing boat,  the  gods  had  sent  a  singing  choir,  to  make  death 
sweet.  Athens  lay  shining,  below  the  Temples  on  the  Rock, 
and  Pallas  Athena,  in  her  armoured  glory,  was  crowning 
them,  as  heroes,  in  suffering. 

When  Ion  came  to  the  end  of  the  chorus,  there  was  a 
long  moment  of  stillness.  It  was  broken  by  a  man's  loud 
clapping  and  his  shout  — 

"  By  Apollo  and  all  the  muses !  —  but  the  creature  has  a 
roice !  "  cried  out,  lustily,  this  newly-come  Syracusan.  He, 
in  company  with  a  band  of  fashionably  attired  youths,  had 


ION  SINGS  41I 

swept  up  from  the  theatre,  in  time  to  hear  Ion's  chant- 
ing. 

The  speaker,  with  a  spring,  had  placed  himself  beside 
the  amber-draped  beauty.  His  arm  was  about  her  waist, 
his  lips  swept  her  cheek. 

"  Ah-h  —  dearest  Aphrodite  —  I  knew  I  should  find  you 
here !  "  the  young  man  cried ;  his  eyes  were  full  of  mock- 
ing indulgence.  "And  what  new  invention  have  you  tried 
—  to  make  dying  harder  —  you  dear  monster  of  iniquity  ?  " 
The  man  ran  his  eyes,  with  devouring  fondness,  over  the 
delicate  face  and  shape  he  had  now  drawn  close  to  him. 

The  girl  allowed  herself  to  be  thus  appropriated.  Her 
face  remained  immovable.  She  kept  her  eyes  plunged  down- 
ward, into  the  gulf  below.  Presently  she  murmured,  caress- 
ingly:— 

"  Give  him  to  me,  Gamelion.  Once  he  is  fed  and  cared 
for,  he'll  make  a  good  singer.  Give  him  to  me  —  instead 
of  those  pearls.  None  of  the  others  has  as  distinguished  a 
look." 

The  words  were  languorously  enunciated.  The  man 
was  about  to  answer  when,  to  the  amazement  of  both,  a 
white  face  had  swept  between. 

With  all  her  wonted  Athenian  imperiousness,  Maia  was 
standing  before  the  two.  Though  her  face  was  marble,  her 
voice  was  firm. 

"  Nay  —  but  '  tis  I  must  claim  him.  By  rights  this 
Athenian  belongs  to  me.  I  had  long  since  intended  to  buy 
him.  " 

Maia's  eyes  rained  their  old  look  of  authoritative  com- 
mand. 

"  Well  of  all  the  bold  hussies !  A  stranger  —  a  Corinthi- 
an —  setting  up  claims  over  our  prisoners  —  over  an  Athe- 
nian! Of  all  things!  Gamelion,  tell  the  guard  to  lower  the 


4i2         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

basket. "  The  Syracusan  had  suddenly  developed  the  quick 
Sicilian  temper. 

Maia  all  but  closed  the  girl's  lips. 

With  swift  daring  she  had  caught  the  girl's  waist ;  — 
she  was  whispering  hoarsely  in  her  ear  —  the  one  furthest 
away  from  her  lover  — "  Come  —  I  must  speak  to  you  — 
Oh,  do  not  deny  me!  Make  an  excuse.  I  have  something 
of  utmost  importance  to  impart  to  you." 

The  girl  stared,  bit  her  lip,  gave  Maia's  impassioned,  be- 
seeching face  a  comprehensive  look,  and  lazily  released 
herself.  "  Keep  my  place,  Gamelion,  and  bid  the  guard 
wait  —  this  lady  and  I  have  something  to  say  to  each 
other." 

And  the  two  swept  away,  together,  beyond  the  crowd. 

Once  they  had  gained  an  isolated  corner,  Maia  looked 
down  upon  the  delicate  visage  with  all  her  soul  in  her  face. 
She  bent  over  her.  She  fondled  the  limp  hands,  the  slender 
wrists;  —  never  had  she  sent  the  thrilling  quality  into  her 
tones  as  now. 

"  Listen  —  O  hear  me !  You  too  are  a  woman,  and 
young.  You  also  have  loved  —  your  eyes  tell  me  you  are  not 
wholly  unfeeling.  That  poor  wretch  yonder  —  was  once 
my  lover.  I  —  I  loved  him.  I  love  him  still.  I  came 
here  to  save  him.  Will  you  help  me?  If  you  will  —  half 
of  my  fortune  is  yours.  " 

Never  had  Maia's  beauty  been  as  moving.  A  divine 
radiance  shone  from  her  glistening,  pleading  eyes.  All  the 
power  of  her  soul  she  was  pouring  forth,  to  move  this  slim 
creature  to  responsive  quivering. 

Her  bold  move  appeared  to  have  missed  of  its  effect. 

Aphrodite  neither  spoke  nor  stirred.  Her  soft  languid 
eyes  scanned  Maia's  face  as  though  she  were  reading  a 
scroll.  She  seemed  chiefly  marvelling  that  the  loss  or  gain 
of  a  lover  —  and  such  a  lover !  —  should  move  a  woman  to 


ION  SINGS  4I3 

tears.     She  watched  the  large,  round  drops  fall,  one  by  one, 
on  Maia's  beautiful  neck. 

Then,   suddenly,    with   amazing  quickness,    the   features 

melted.     She  smiled.     One  could  easily  divine  men's  love 

of^this  frail,  perfectly  finished  little  masterpiece;  for  her 

smile  had  the  sweetness  and  guileless  simplicity  of  a  child. 

She  lifted  her  chin.     And  her  blue  eyes  met  Maia's. 

"  Oh-h  —  if  he's  been  your  lover,  and  you  have  come  a 

long  journey,  you  must  have  him,  of  course.     He  isn't  much 

to  save  though,  is  he?     No-o  — don't  say  that.     I  don't 

want  anything  —  not  money  —  of  all  things.     I  have  more 

of  that  than  I  care  for.  " 

For  a  single  instant  the  girl  held  her  breath.  Then  her 
child's  smile  broadened.  "Only  —  if  —  you  will  give  me 
these,  as  a  remembrance,  I  will  keep  your  secret.  I  will 
try  to  help  — " 

Maia's  fingers  were  already  busy,  her  voice  was  husky 
with  feeling,  as  she  cried: 

"  Oh-h  —  take  them,  and  this,  and  this !  I  shall  pray 
for  you,  I  shall  bless  you  always.  " 

She  was  tearing,  as  she  spoke,  at  her  ear-rings,  necklace 
and  bracelet.  As  they  fell  from  ears,  throat,  and  arms 
Aphrodite  greedily  clutched  them.  Her  small  hand  closed 
over  the  coveted  treasures,  and  crying  aloud,  as  she  sped  on- 
ward, she  hid  her  jewels  in  her  girdle — "Come  —  let  us 
be  quick  —  something  new  is  on.  I  hear  shouting.  " 
The  two  hurried  back  to  the  quarry,  hand  in  hand. 
Ion  they  found  still  held  his  audience.  But  he  was  not 
now  alone.  Others  had  crawled  toward  him,  on  hands 
and  feet.  Some  lay,  too  weak  to  rise.  Others,  like  Ion, 
stood  upright.  All  were  chanting,  in  concert.  And 
Euripides'  chorus  was  a  chorus  indeed. 

It  had  come  to  an  end,  as  Maia  and  Aphrodite  joined 
the  listeners. 


4H          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

A  rain  of  cakes  and  scraps  of  food  had  rewarded  the 
singers.  The  former  sickening  scramble  was  repeated. 
Maia  saw  Ion  grasp  one  large  morsel,  and  speed  away.  He 
was  now  bending  over  Persia.  He  fed  him  as  he  might  a 
sick  child. 

Aphrodite  meanwhile,  had  been  true  to  her  promise. 
Whatever  she  had  said  to  her  lover  had  produced  its 
effects.  She  led  the  Syracusan  toward  Maia.  "  This  is 
the  lady  —  she  has  a  taste  for  skeletons  —  it  appears.  Go 
with  her  —  show  her  the  guard.  Make  him  lower  the 
basket  —  I'd  like  to  see  how  he  looks,  in  full  daylight.  " 

Maia  smiled  her  thanks,  and  followed.  They  swept  to 
the  place  where  the  guards  stood. 

"  If  you'll  lower  the  basket  —  immediately  —  you'll  not 
lose  your  time,  "  said  the  man.  And  Maia  immediately 
opened  her  palm. 

The  foremost  guard  smiled,  shook  his  head,  then  seeing 
the  size  of  the  coins,  scratched  his  head  meditatively  —  and 
pulled  out  the  ropes. 

The  basket  was  lowered.  Its  progress  was  skillfully 
handled.  As  it  dropped,  it  stood  close  beside  Ion. 

Ion  and  Persia  stared,  looked  in  each  other's  eyes,  and 
stood  motionless. 

A  loud  laugh  rang  down  from  the  circle  rimming  the 
quarry's  upper  edge. 

Maia  found  that  she  had  lost  her  strength.  She  could 
neither  speak  nor  talk.  Her  utmost  power  had  been  ex- 
hausted. She  could  only  look  —  and  stare  and  stare  down- 
wards. 

The  guard  lost  his  patience.  His  shout  now  filled  the 
spaces  of  the  air  and  of  the  abyss. 

"  You  fool !  Can't  you  read  luck  when  it  stands  beside 
you  ?  "  To  further  emphasize  this  meaning  he  whipped  an 
end  of  the  cord  towards  Ion. 


ION  SINGS  415 

Ion's  face  cleared.  His  eyes  were  aglow  —  for  now  he 
understood.  Among  those  furies,  some  one  meant  to  buy 
him  —  to  make  him  their  slave.  The  joy  seemed  too  great 
to  bear. 

He  felt  Persia  pushing  him  towards  the  basket.  He 
heard  the  envious  roar  of  his  less  fortunate  fellow  sufferers. 
He  had  actually  placed  one  foot  on  the  edge  of  the  wicker 
when  Persia,  he  saw,  was  in  tears. 

"  Kiss  me  —  dear  Master  —  once.  I  can  now  die  happy 
—  you  are  saved.  "  » 

But  Ion  on  the  instant  had  pulled  himself  away.  He 
had  caught  Persia  to  him  —  he  clasped  him  close.  With 
an  arm  about  him  who  had  indeed  saved  his  life,  Ion  lifted 
his  head.  He  shook  it,  as  he  cried  upwards,  with  a  firm 
voice :  — 

"  Whoever  you  may  be  —  O  deliverer !  —  receive  the 
thanks  of  Ion  —  of  the  Piraeus  —  Crates'  son.  And  may 
our  Athenian  gods  rain  down  blessings  upon  you !  But  this 
man  I  can  not  leave  — he  is  dying  because  I  still  live  — 
leave  us,  that  death  may  release  us  together  —  as  we  have 
suffered  together !  " 

A  shout  of  derisive  laughter  —  of  exquisite  rapture  roared 
itself  forth.  The  Syracusians  rocked  their  delight.  Here 
was  a  situation  in  a  thousand  —  one  new  —  replete  in 
drama  —  as  amazing  as  an  Aristophanean  comedy. 

"  By  Jove !  "  cried  Aphrodite's  lover,  his  brutal  laugh 
drowning  the  feebler  ones  about  him,  "What  a  fool! 
Here's  one  who  refuses  to  be  saved  —  won't  leave  his  slave! 
There's  a  typical  Athenian  for  you.  Little  wonder  we 
beat  them  —  with  their  prayers  and  soft  speeches.  Ha!  ha! ' 

"Who  wants  a  fool  and  his  slave?"  laughed  a  youth, 
close  to  Maia. 

"  Who'll  take  both  —  at  a  bargain ?    Who  bids?  " 

Maia  summoned   her  composure.     She  laid   her  heaviest 


416          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

jewelled  hand  on  the  mocking  youth's  arm.  She  knew  the 
power  of  her  eyes  —  with  young  men.  She  made  use  of 
this,  her  woman's  secret  now.  As  she  spoke,  she  smiled 
divinely.  She  appeared  to  be  taking  the  youth  into  her  con- 
fidence. 

"  Tell  the  guard  —  will  you  —  that  I  will  take  them 
both  —  as  slaves.  Once  the  two  are  cared  for  —  they  may 
be  useful.  When  I've  fattened  the  Pirzean,  "  Maia  choked, 
"I  —  I  think  his  voice  may  be  excellent  —  as  a  singer.  " 

Maia's  soft  voice,  her  composed  manner,  her  air  of  com- 
mand, above  all  the  purity  of  her  Ionic  accent  and  her 
remaining  jewels,  some  huge  pearls,  produced  their  effect. 
The  youth  was  flattered,  and  he  obeyed.  He  gave  a  quick 
order,  rang  down  a  sharp  command  to  Ion,  and  the  two 
stepped  slowly  —  with  awkward  feebleness  —  into  the 
basket. 

"The  lady  will  take  them  both,  "  he  had  shouted.  "  Cor- 
inthians for  ever!  They  know  a  good  bargain!  Up 
with  them  —  Up !  Up.  There  —  easy  —  swing  them  — 
that's  right  —  give  them  a  good  wide  swing  —  'tis  long 
since  they  had  one !  " 

The  basket,  with  its  human  burden,  was  swung  aloft, 
above  the  heads  of  the  audience,  and  with  a  practised  hand. 

For  a  brief  instant,  it  hung  in  mid-air.  The  next,  with 
a  swing  and  a  plunge  downward,  it  came  to  its  rest  beside 
Maia. 

Above  the  wicker  rim  a  haggard-eyed  creature  stared 
about  him,  with  widely  distended  eyes.  Ion's  yellowish 
pallor,  his  bones  protruding  through  his  skin,  the  sunken 
cheeks  and  deeply  hollowed  eye-sockets  brought  to  the  thick 
circle  of  the  curious  crowd  rustling  about  the  basket,  as 
from  the  grave,  the  gaunt  picture  of  a  man  snatched  from 
death's  grasp.  Ion  sent  his  eyes  from  face  to  face.  At 
last  the  mauve  draperies  were  found,  and  the  face  was  — 


ION  SINGS  417 

Then  Ion's  head  was  seen  to  shoot  suddenly  backwards, 
as  though  struck  by  an  unseen  hand. 

And  a  great  cry  filled  the  air. 

"Maia!    Maia!" 

But  the  lips  could  say  no  more.  The  wildly  rolling  eyes 
were  closed,  and  the  head  sank.  Ion  lay  limp  as  death,  in 
a  swoon. 

Aphrodite's  voice  was  heard    calling  from    the  road:  — 

"  Come  —  that  play  is  ended !  —  the  other  one's  all  but 
dead  already.  It's  tiresome!  Who'll  come  down  for  cool- 
ing sherbert  with  me  —  at  my  house?"  Half  the  crowd 
followed  her.  Unfeeling  Aphrodite  had  been  as  good  as 
her  word. 

When  Ion  opened  his  eyes  he  felt  the  warm,  loving  clasp 
of  Maia's  hand  in  his.  She  was  walking  beside  him.  Some 
slaves  were  swinging  along  —  gently,  with  the  litter  on 
which  he  lay,  between  them.  At  first  Ion  was  too  weak  to 
speak.  But  he  could  look  and  look.  He  knew  for  a  surety 
now  his  heaven  was  reality. 

"Maia  —  blessed,  beautiful  Maia!"  he  breathed.  His 
rapture  swallowed  up  his  amazement.  He  was  too  weak 
for  a  confusion  of  emotions.  His  thoughts  came  simply. 
His  beloved  Maia  had  come  out  to  him  —  out  of  the  awful 
hell  of  his  sufferings.  She  was  walking  beside  him. 
In  the  thick  shadow  of  a  cypress  grove  Maia  swept  him  her 
first  kiss. 

"  Hush-h  —  don't  speak  O  beloved !  Oh  my  love  —  my 
love  —  to  feel  you  thus  —  to  know  you  living !  " 

Maia's  full  heart  could  command  no  further  words. 
But  kisses  and  more  kisses  were  speech  enough. 

Later,  as  they  moved  on  and  on,  she  heard  him  murmur, 
"Almighty  Power,  all  powers  above  —  Great  Unconquer- 
able Love!  "  and  the  eyes  of  both  were  swimming  in  tears 
through  joy  too  deep  for  words. 


4i8         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Thus  through  the  pink  world  of  the  Syracusan  sunset, 
they  crept  down  the  hill  slope.  The  blanched  marbles  of 
houses  and  temples  were  flushed  with  colour.  The  very 
city  seemed  to  mirror  their  joy.  Far  out  beyond  the  red- 
dening city,  the  blue  waters  of  the  Great  Harbour  had 
turned  to  wine.  This  Sicilian  bay  wore  the  deep  violets  of 
the  ^Egean.  As  the  stars  flamed,  golden  balls  of  brightness, 
the  rythmical  beat  of  oars  beat  upon  the  still  night. 

Maia  and  Ion,  beneath  the  starry  firmament,  were  being 
wafted  homeward. 


Chapter  XXXVI 

AN   EPITHALAMIUM 

THE  autumn  grains  were  showing  their  green  shoots,  in 
Hermione's  fields,  in  Euboea.  Her  terraced  gardens,  that 
sloped  to  the  winding  river,  were  full  of  the  last  roses  and 
lilies  that  were  to  bloom,  before  Spring  came. 

On  a  bright  morning  in  Pyanepsion  (October)  Myrto  and 
Asia  had  made  their  accustomed  tour,  of  the  garden  beds. 
Myrto  had  plucked  a  deep  red  rose,  and  then  another.  She 
placed  them  both  securely  within  her  girdle. 

"  Come,  the  air  is  brisk,  let  us  go  down  for  a  walk  by 
the  river.  Mother  is  gone  forth  with  the  overseer,  to  look 
at  the  grain,  beyond  the  pasture. " 

Asia  assented.  It  seemed  as  good  a  way  as  any  of  pass- 
ing a  dull  morning.  Yet  the  air,  as  Myrto  had  said,  was 
good.  It  stirred  one's  blood,  agreeably.  And  in  the  whole 
estate,  there  were  few  places  as  pleasant  as  the  river. 

On  their  way  thither,  they  startled  some  young  pea-hens, 
whose  unnatural  mother  was  gossiping  with  other  hens,  more 
fortunate,  with  no  tiresome  broods  of  vain  male  creatures 
to  bring  up  to  the  point  of  indifferent  abandonment  and  a 
promising  growth  of  tail. 

A  dozen  or  more  fully  grown  birds,  resplendent  of 
plumage,  were  sunning  themseives  upon  the  terrace-wall. 
As  Myrto  passed,  they  spread  their  iridescent  circles  above 
the  roses  and  tall  lilies.  With  a  screech,  they  closed  their 
tails,  to  fly  barnwards,  once  they  saw  the  backs  of  their 
admirers  turned  upon  them. 

Down  by  the  river,  Myrto  and  Asia  found  the  usual 
419 


420         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

pastoral  scene  already  set.  Flocks  of  slow-moving  sheep 
were  industriously  nibbling  at  the  grasses.  The  shepherds 
were  carving  reeds  into  rude  flutes;  one  was  already  play- 
ing to  his  flock.  The  river,  as  it  ran,  warbled  also  its  silken 
notes.  And  the  two  great  avenues  of  plane  trees  spread 
wide  their  dappled  shade. 

Myrto  had  brought  a  frame  and  some  embroidery.  She 
was  soon  seated  upon  the  crooked  arm  of  a  companionable 
tree  branch.  Asia  was  knitting  beside  her.  And  the  au- 
tumn air  was  very  still. 

So  still  it  was  that  the  soft  drop  of  a  horse's  hoofs,  from 
a  far  distance,  sounded  close  —  almost  near  by. 

"  Now  I  wonder  who  that  can  be !  "  fretfully  murmured 
Asia.  And  she  knit  her  black  brows. 

"  Don't  fret,  Asia.  It  can't  be  Spartans  —  they  come  in 
companies  —  not  singly,  "  laughed  Myrto. 

"  That's  right  —  laugh !  laugh !  You'll  sing  a  different 
tune  some  of  these  days.  No  one  knows,  save  the  gods, 
what  fate  may  be  ours !  "  grunted  Asia.  Her  eyes  wore  an 
anxious  look,  and  her  face  showed  her  age,  as  she  listened. 
For  Asia,  a  slave,  knew  more  of  all  there  was  to  fear,  in 
these  troublous  times,  than  could  either  Hermione  or 
Myrto. 

"Asia,  you've  prophesied  trouble  ever  since  father  died. 
Wait  till  Thrasybulous  returns.  Wait  till  Serapion  — " 

Asia's  groaning  interruption  rose  up  to  smite  the  still  air. 

"  Thrasybulous !  Serapion !  One  dead  or  a  slave,  and 
the  other  a  mere  stripling!  Fine  warriors  these  —  to  de- 
fend defenseless  women.  I  wish  I  could  see  that  horseman. 
There  are  two,  or  my  ears  are  dull.  " 

The  approaching  horsemen  were,  near  enough  now  to 
arouse  Myrto's  interest.  Instinctively  she  lifted  her  hands 
to  her  thick  braids.  Her  hair  was  tucked  up  in  peasant 
fashion,  in  the  way  Electra  wore  her  tresses  in  Euripides' 


AN  EPITHALAMIUM  421 

play.  In  the  quiet  secluded  life  Myrto  and  her  mother  led, 
and  had  led  for  two  years,  city  habits  and  town  fashions 
were  disregarded. 

Eager  as  was  her  curious  wonderment,  Myrto  yet  had 
calm  enough  to  wish  she  had  taken  a  veil  along. 

The  horsemen,  she  conjectured,  were  possibly  visitors,  or 
some  of  her  fathers'  friends  from  Athens  might  have  come, 
to  bring  news  of  Serapion  or  of  Thrasybulous. 

'  They  are  coming  from  the  coast,  "  Myrto  cried  sudden- 
ly, starting  to  her  feet.  A  wave  of  excitement  swept  her. 
It  seemed  as  though  an  event  of  importance  were  about  to 
happen  "  Perhaps,  it  may  be  Thrasybulous!  or  —  or"  she 
paused,  she  met  Asia's  contemptuous  glance. 

"  Ion,  you  should  say.  But  you  never  do!  You  are  ever 
thinking  of  him  whom  you  should  not.  " 

Myrto 's  cry  was  not  in  response  to  Asia's  scornful  re- 
proach. With  a  quick  bound,  frame  and  thread  were  sent 
rolling  to  the  ground.  And  Myrto  was  whirling  down  the 
road,  toward  the  galloping  horsemen.  Her  "  Oh !  Oh !  " 
floated  backwards  to  Asia.  This  wild  and  joyous  exclama- 
tion told  the  latter  nothing  she  longed  to  know. 

The  foremost  rider,  the  slave  saw,  had  reined  in  his  horse, 
on  catching  sight  of  Myrto's  flying  figure. 

Asia  was  about  to  hasten  on,  even  to  attempt  the  dan- 
gerous feat  of  running,  that  she  might  prevent  Myrto  from 
further  disgraceful  behavior,  when  to  her  immense  re- 
lief, Hermione  made  her  appearance.  She  was  hurrying 
across  the  road.  She  was  now  close  to  Asia. 

Startled,  with  eyes  big  with  amazed  affright,  Hermione 
showed  the  effects  the  anxious  years  had  brought.  Threads 
of  grey  were  shining  above  her  troubled  brow.  And  her 
step  was  less  vigorous  than  when  Critias  had  lived  to  make 
perpetual  activity  the  daily  rule  of  her  life.  The  something 
spiritual  that  comes  from  suffering,  had  given  a  subdued 


422          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

look  to  Hermione's  proud  features;  the  winged  fire  of  eager 
hope  was  quenched. 

She  was  now  visibly,  nervously,  startled,  as  had  been  her 
slave,  by  the  appearance  of  two  horsemen.  In  this  remote 
and  solitary  country,  with  the  Spartans  in  possession  of  the 
road  leading  to  Athens,  across  the  frontier,  these  lonely 
women  trembled  at  every  footfall,  and  saw  an  enemy  in 
every  stranger's  face. 

"Know  you  who  these  gentlemen  are?  And  how  comes 
Myrto,  in  Heaven's  name,  to  be  alone,  yonder  ?  " 

Myrto  cut  her  mother's  words  in  two.  She  was  running 
toward  her  with  breathless  joy.  And  the  stranger  was 
hurrying  close  upon  her  flying  feet. 

With  her  arms  in  high  air,  Myrto  cried,  "  Oh  Mother ! 
'Tis  Timoleon!  He's  alive,  and  he  is  here  —  he  has  come 
to  protect  us !  " 

With  a  sob  of  pure  joy,  Myrto  flung  herself  upon  Her- 
mione's shoulder,  since  decorum  precluded  the  possibility  of 
its  being  Timoleon 's. 

Timoleon,  handsome,  flushed,  yet  thinner  and  still  wan 
from  his  recent  illness,  was  warmly  welcomed  by  Hermione. 
She  herself  even  choked  a  rising  sob.  To  see  an  Athenian 
face,  after  these  terrible  months  of  eating  fear,  of  loneliness, 
and  of  apprehension;  —  to  look  upon  Timoleon's  brilliant, 
forcible  features ;  to  feel  his  warm  grasp,  and  to  know  a  man 
was  here,  at  last,  to  bring  comforting  strength  as  well  as  to 
give  true  tidings  —  all  this  brought  Hermione  such  fulness 
of  delight,  as  well  as  relief,  she  could  gauge  by  her  immedi- 
ate feeling  of  security  how  close  she  had  lived  to  the  edge  of 
fear. 

Once  within  the  house,  and  Hermione  and  Myrto  hung 
on  every  word  of  Timoleon's  stirring,  tragic  tale.  After  all 
had  been  told,  of  the  war  news,  and  of  Athens'  latest 
terrible  history,  Timoleon  led  his  hearers  on  by  gradual 


AN  EPITHALAMIUM  423 

stages,  to  more  strictly  personal  matters.  To  Hermoine 
he  confessed  he  had  come,  he  said,  urged  by  friends  of  her 
husband's,  to  implore  her  return  to  Athens.  Euboea  was 
no  longer  deemed  safe,  as  a  residence,  for  any  Athenian, 
much  less  for  unprotected  women.  Euboea  was  on  the 
point  of  open  revolt.  Athens'  allies,  one  by  one,  were 
throwing  off  the  yoke  of  Athenian  supremacy. 

"You  fear,  indeed,  open  revolt?"  queried  Hermione, 
lifting  anxious  brows.  And  she  thought  of  her  rich  pastures 
and  fair  fields. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  is  the  received  opinion.  Surely 
some,  at  least,  among  your  slaves — " 

"  Oh,  "  wearily  admitted  Hermione,  "  we  have  lost 
many.  Dekelia  woos  them;  freedom  and  Spartan  gold, 
spoils,  plunder  are  too  close  at  hand.  Slaves  are  but  human." 

"  Then  come  to  Athens,  dear  lady!  Let  me  help  you  to 
settle  matters.  And  come,  and  as  soon  as  possible.  My 
ship  —  a  ship  lies  even  now  at  the  coast  —  it  will  hold  all 
you  may  wish  to  bring. 

"A  ship?  You  have  a  ship  waiting?"  Hermione 
gasped.  Her  quick  glance  met  Myrto's.  Timoleon,  sure- 
ly, and  in  spite  of  his  sad  tale  of  disaster  and  of  privation, 
must  have  brought  back  some  Sicilian  booty,  gold  in  plenty, 
for  the  former  poverty  of  Timoleon's  resources  was  known 
to  all. 

Timoleon  quickly  disabused  the  ladies'  minds, 
had  been  lent;  it  had  been  lying  idle,  he  had  it  for  nothing. 
That  which  he  could  not  tell  them,  was  that  Maia,  b 
her  departure,  had  seen  to  this,  as  to  every  other  detail,  c< 
nected  with  her  mother's  safety  and  comfort. 

Of  Thrasybulous,  Timoleon  could  give  no  tiding  wha 
ever;   and   of   Nausicaa   Hermione's  pride  forbade   her 
speak.     For  she  had  gone  with  Glaucus-had   fled  wit 
her  latest  lover  to  Sparta.     Serapion  had,  Hermione  was 


424         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

told,  sent  eager,  loving  greeting.  He  was  well,  had  never 
been  better;  "  turning  soldier  is  better  than  athletics  in  the 
gymnasia,"  he  had  said. 

As  for  Ion,  Timoleon  narrated  his  fate  as  he  knew  it. 
Among  the  returned  survivors,  no  tidings  of  him  had  as  yet 
come.  Crates  was  half  crazed;  he  sat  on  the  docks  now, 
night  and  day.  "  And  when  our  battered  marines  straggle 
in,  without  Ion,  the  poor  old  man  weeps.  But  he  takes 
them  all  home,  and  feasts  them,  for  Ion's  sake.  " 

"  Poor  man !  "  murmured  Hermione,  the  quick  tears  fall- 
ing. 

"  And  now,  dear  lady,  should  Ion,  alas !  not  return  — 
and  —  and  Myrto  will  therefore  be  free,  would  you  receive 
me  —  as  your  son  —  as  dear  Myrto's  husband  ?  " 

The  real  question  Timoleon  had  come  to  ask  was  asked 
simply,  but  at  precisely  the  right  moment.  He  had  waited 
until  Hermione  had  seen  the  utter  futility  of  hope,  of  Ion's 
being  saved.  Since  the  great  battle,  three  months  had 
passed ;  and  the  very  last  of  those  who  had  escaped  had  long 
since  returned. 

Hermione  looked  from  one  glistening,  pleading  face  be- 
fore her,  to  the  other.  Timoleon  felt,  apparently,  very  sure 
of  his  answer.  For  his  hand  enclosed  Myrto's  palm.  And 
Myrto  wore  a  bride's  look. 

Hermione  smiled.  She  laid  her  own  hand  upon  the  two 
close  clasped. 

"  I  would  willingly  give  her  to  you,  Timoleon,  for  she 
loves  you.  But  'tis  Ion  alone  can  release  her.  Let  us 
wait  another  month.  If  no  tidings  come  —  she  shall  be 
yours. " 


A  little  more  than  a  month  later  Maia's  ship  landed  at 
the  Piraeus.    It  was  late,  and  the  quais  were  deserted.    But, 


AN  EPITHALAMIUM  425 

so  great  was  Ion's  anxiety  to  embrace  his  father,  that  the 
landing  was  hurriedly  pushed  forward. 

Mago,  who  had  been  sent  upwards,  to  Munychia  Hill,  to 
prepare  Crates  for  the  great  surprise,  returned  with  chilling 
news. 

Crates  had  been  in  Athens,  for  some  days.  He  had  been 
ill.  The  doctors  were  in  close  attendance.  He  was  in 
Ion's  old  house,  the  one  close  to  the  Lyceum.  Since  the 
doctors  despaired  of  his  life,  'twas  there  he  would  await  the 
great  Deliverer,  he  had  told  his  friends. 

Ion's  face,  at  this  news,  showed  bright  fever  spots. 
Maia  was  shaken  with  the  fearsome  trembling  that  had 
scarce  left  her  since  the  start  homeward.  With  her  cus- 
tomary quickness  at  meeting  a  fresh  difficulty,  she  decided, 
late  as  was  the  hour,  to  push  on,  at  once,  to  Athens.  The 
sooner  Ion  had  felt  his  father's  kiss  the  better  for  both. 

Maia  was  to  find  her  decision  proven  the  right  one.  Al- 
most at  the  very  start  Ion's  cheeks  lost  their  feverish  look; 
his  eyes  sparkled  with  glad  youthful  delight  as,  one  by  one, 
the  dear  familiar  Athenian  sights  and  sounds  were  met  and 
heard. 

The  famous  road  between  the  Long  Walls,  as  of  old,  was 
thronged. 

Athens  appeared  to  have  recovered  her  lost  bustle,  her  old 
wonted  stir  and  activity.  Even  now,  though  the  night  had 
fallen,  crowds  of  vendors,  of  slaves,  sailors,  metics,  and 
soldiers  crowded  the  gay  highroad. 

In  the  city  itself,  there  were  the  same  hopeful  signs  of 
vigorous  life.  The  Dipylon  Gate  was  astir  with  the 
water  carriers,  farmer's  carts,  and  dairymen.  The  lights  in 
the  thickly  built  houses  shone  out  through  open  doors,  to 
throw  shadows  and  to  splash  bright  patches  upon  the  faces 
built  into  the  walls.  Apollo  Aqueius,  and  the  rows  of  the 
new,  stiffly  bearded,  benign-featured  Hermae  were  illumined. 


426          ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

Everywhere,  throughout  the  crooked  streets  and  narrow 
lanes,  the  resonant  Athenian  voices  rose  up,  to  make  the 
traveller's  ears  throb  with  the  sense  of  the  true  home  rapture. 

"  Oh  —  Ion  —  Ion !  does  it  not  seem,  indeed,  as  though 
the  time  of  our  sorrow  were  past,  and  that  in  dear  Athens, 
joy  alone  is  to  be  our  portion  ?  "  Maia  murmured,  voice 
and  eyes  full  of  happy  tears. 

"  When  I  have  seen  my  father,  dearest  Maia,  the  cup  of 
joy  will  indeed  be  full,"  replied  Ion.  And  he  leant  for- 
ward, far  into  the  dimly  lighted  streets,  as  though  by  send- 
ing his  eyes  forth  he  could  shorten  the  distance. 

On  turning  to  enter  the  street  of  the  Tripods,  the  flare 
of  many  torches,  the  melodious  blending  of  lyres  and  flutes 
and  voices,  in  nuptial  songs,  and  the  sight  of  a  chariot, 
blocking  the  way,  announced  a  wedding.  Maia  was  in- 
stantly all  woman.  Fluttering  with  curiosity  and  excite- 
ment, she  exclaimed,  her  voice  thrilled  with  the  feminine 
joy  in  the  mere  sight  of  wedding  festivities  — 

"  I  believe,  on  my  soul,  it's  a  wedding !  Ion,  indeed,  we 
must  see  it  pass.  Who  knows  but  some  we  know  may  be 
among  the  guests?  " 

Mago  was  quickly  bidden  to  tell  the  bearers  of  their  lit- 
ters to  seek  a  discreet  corner,  that  there  she  might  alight. 

The  street  was  made  suddenly  ablaze  with  the  great 
nuptial  torches.  The  foremost  slaves  marched  in  time,  to 
the  sound  of  the  flutes  and  the  clashing  cymbals. 

Slowly,  with  prancing  steps,  the  horses  advanced,  draw- 
ing behind  them  the  wedding  chariot. 

Beside  her  husband,  between  him  and  Serapion,  sat 
Myrto.  Her  hand  lay  in  Timoleon's.  Through  the  flow- 
ing folds  of  her  veil,  under  the  softening  yellow  torch  light, 
her  face  bloomed  with  the  rosy  flush  of  the  dawn. 

Timoleon  sat,  staring  fixedly  before  him.  Never  had 
his  face  more  clearly  revealed  its  aristocratic  lineage,  and 


AN  EPITHALAMIUM  427 

upon  those  chiselled  features  there  rested  the  look  of  the 
man  who  is  conscious  of  having  accomplished  his  ends.  In 
his  groomsman's  finery,  the  torches  lit  a  groom  who  was 
every  inch  a  man. 

Behind  the  wedding  chariot,  Hermione  followed.  With 
sagging  hands,  she  held  the  nuptial  torch.  Her  emotion 
had  overcome  her.  Bright  tears  fell,  unheeded,  for  all  to 
see.  In  Myrto's  marriage  she  was  parting  with  all  that 
made  her  home  life  still  endurable. 

With  hands  convulsively  clasped,  Ion  and  Maia  stared, 
looked,  marvelled,  gasped,  and  then,  as  Hermione  passed, 
their  questioning  eyes  met. 

Each  was  asking  the  other  the  great  upleaping  question. 
How  meet  this,  the  best,  the  most  glorious  of  welcomes, 
the  solution  of  so  many  troublesome  problems? 

Ion's  pallor,  his  trembling,  made  Maia  quick  to  think. 

"  Dearest,"  she  hastened  to  say.  "  Let  me  return.  Let 
my  bearers  retrace  their  steps.  I  will  go  home  —  to  dear 
Hermione's  house.  There  I  shall  await  her.  To  the  wed- 
ding we  cannot  —  I  must  not  go.  And  you  must  go  on  to 
your  father." 

Thus  it  was  settled. 

Several  shades  later,  Hermione  with  breaking  heart,  sat 
beside  Serapion.  He  was  driving  her  back  to  her  now 
desolate  home.  For  on  the  very  morrow  he  —  the  last  of 
all  she  held  dear  —  was  to  go  forth,  to  the  frontier,  on 
garrison  duty. 

The  epithalamium  was  still  ringing  in  Hermione's  ears. 
The  picture  Myrto's  bridesmaids  had  made,  crowding  about 
the  nuptial  chamber,  and  the  merry,  joyous  notes  of  their 
melodious  song,  were  wedded  to  the  low  intimate  quiver  of 
Myrto's  voice,  as  she  had  kissed  her  mother,  at  parting. 

What  a  gift  to  tender  any  man,  this  dear  Myrto!  How 
she  had  stood,  the  very  image  of  thrilled  joy  shrouded  in 


428         ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 

modesty,  there,  as  HermJone  had  left  her,  her  hands  crossed 
upon  her  bosom,  the  lamps  lighting  the  young  and  perfect 
face,  flushed  with  joyous  yet  tremulous  expectancy!  The 
roses  that  lay  strewn  upon  the  nuptial  couch  were  not  as 
fragrant  as  was  her  purity.  Would  Timoleon  be  kind? 
Would  he  learn  from  Myrto  what  marriage  might  mean? 

Hermione's  thoughts  and  yearnings  crowded  thick  as,  on 
and  on  Serapion  drove,  with  a  youth's  joy  in  conducting  a 
fine  chariot. 

As  the  mother  and  son  neared  the  house,  in  the  street  of 
Hermes,  both  stared,  exclaimed,  as  their  eyes  met,  in  startled 
amazement. 

Before  they  came  to  a  rest  at  the  home  door,  a  great 
blaze  they  saw,  filled  the  crooked  street.  Every  sculptured 
face  carved  into  the  walls,  and  the  winding  procession  of 
the  Zeus  Herkios  and  Hermae  were  made  as  plain  as  in  day. 
Within  Hermione's  porch  a  tall  figure  stood,  as  though 
waiting.  The  shape  that  loomed  forth  into  the  night,  was 
gloriously  lighted. 

Could  it  be  Thrasybulous,  saved,  returned?  Hermione's 
heart  gave  a  wild  throb  of  hope. 

It  was  not  Thrasybulous  but  Maia's  face  that  shone  forth. 
From  between  the  high-held  torches,  her  face  bloomed  out 
of  the  brightness  like  that  of  a  beneficent  goddess  en- 
shrined. 

Mago  and  Persia  had  been  unable  to  keep  from  proclaim- 
ing their  mistress's  claim  to  kinship  with  as  famous  a  house. 
And  the  slaves,  one  and  all,  had  flocked  about  Maia.  She 
could  not  be  pursuaded  to  await  the  portentous  moment 
away  from  the  vestibule  door.  There  she  stood  and  had 
stood ;  and  her  slaves,  those  who  knew  her,  loving  her  most 
for  such  knowledge,  and  those  also,  who  knew  her  not,  yet 
glorying  in  the  sense  of  being  owned  by  one  possessing  such 
beauty,  and  great  riches,  and  as  marvellous  a  history,  all 


AN  EPITHALAMIUM  429 

were  clustered  close  about  her.  The  night  being  dark,  they 
had  brought  torches,  that  Hermione  might  see  from  afar  this 
famous  Maia. 

As  the  nuptial  chariot  came  to  a  stop,  Serapion's  joyous, 
startled  greeting  rang  out.  "Why!  'tis  Maia!"  And 
would  have  rushed  to  embrace  his  friend  and  protectress,  but 
Maia  waved  him  aside. 

For  a  single  instant  of  trembling,  Maia  stood  thus,  above 
the  level  of  the  street,  uplifted,  enthroned.  Then,  with  a 
rush  and  a  cry  that  rent  the  air,  she  had  flung  herself  down- 
wards. She  had  caught  Hermione  to  her. 

"Indeed  —  yes!  I  am  Maia.  Lost  Maia!  Oh  Mother! 
take  me  to  your  heart !  " 

Hermione  held  her  at  first  away.  She  was  conscious  only 
of  the  benumbing  surprise  of  finding  this  beautiful  stranger 
—  she  who  was  surely  the  dancer  who  had  posed  and  sung 
at  Myrto's  betrothal  banquet  —  here  on  her  doorstep. 
Then,  taking  the  moved  face  between  her  hands,  Hermione 
searched  it  as  though  it  was  a  scroll. 

A  cry  rang  up  that  pierced  the  air.  For  Hermione  knew 
her  daughter.  And  the  two  women  clung  together,  and 
wept  as  they  clung. 


THE  END. 


